


Undone, Undress

by angelichl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bookstores, Boys In Love, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dissociation, Drunken Confessions, Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, Harry Has a Daddy Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Hypersexuality, Insecurity, Light BDSM, Lingerie, Living Together, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Roommates, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Smut, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 134,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15528606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelichl/pseuds/angelichl
Summary: Louis' new roommate is shy, skittish, and flinches at the slightest sounds. He's an art major who gets drunk on cherry wine, wears lacy lingerie, and shows up late at night covered in bruises that blossom across his skin like flowers.Obviously something is wrong. Louis just doesn't know what it is.





	1. The Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: self-harm (burning), references to suicide (it is discussed but not attempted/committed), abusive parents, abusive relationships, domestic abuse, sexual coercion and rape (between Harry and an original male character who plays a minimal role in the story but is the sole basis of the plot), revenge porn (in the form of an OMC leaking intimate photos of Louis before the story begins), police inadequacy, some aspects to daddy/little dynamic, hypersexual tendencies, nightmares, flashbacks, trauma, post traumatic stress disorder, depression, and dissociation.  
> Also, please note that the first sex scene between Louis and Harry involves slight manipulation and coercion where Louis goes along with something he doesn't totally feel comfortable with.
> 
> If you have any questions or concerns, PLEASE [CONTACT ME](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/ask). Be careful and know your triggers. It's your responsibility to keep yourself safe. IF I FORGOT ANY TRIGGERS IN THE TAGS OR WARNINGS, PLEASE TELL ME IMMEDIATELY SO I CAN FIX IT.
> 
> As always, don't share this with anyone outside the fandom. I don't own anything.
> 
>  
> 
> The title is from the song [Undone, Undress by Marika Hackman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-xx7zKrmS4) (a wonderful LGBT artist - so you should give it a listen) which fits the mood for this story.
> 
> Despite the tags/warnings I promise it isn't as sad as it sounds <3

 

 

_ PYLADES: I’ll take care of you. _

_ ORESTES: It’s rotten work. _

_ PYLADES: Not to me. Not if it’s you. _

 

—Sophocles,  _ Elektra _  (trans. Anne Carson)

 

 

 

“You’ll like him, Lou, I promise.”

 

“You said he’s quiet, though,” Louis argues, hastily wiping the coffee table with a paper towel. Quite a bit of dust has accumulated since he last cleaned his apartment. Come to think of it, that may have been when he first moved in two years ago.

 

He wipes off the filmy layer of grime that amassed on his hands during his cleaning spree. The action leaves dusty streaks on his black jeans. Not his best idea. It takes another few minutes to wipe off his jeans too.

 

“Well- Sometimes. But that’s good because you’re quite loud sometimes, so it’ll balance out.”

 

“Hey,” Louis warns, irritated because he hates cleaning. There’s still something warm in his voice, though, because as annoying as Liam is, Louis will always adore his best friend. The warning is meaningless, just there as a front.

 

Liam rolls his eyes, scrolling through his phone as he lounges on the couch, socked feet propped up on the coffee table. Usually the roles are reversed, with Liam doing all the work and Louis not even pretending to help, but when Louis realized he needed to scour the entire apartment in less than fifteen minutes, Liam had only laughed and said  _ you’re on your own _ .

 

“He’s gonna hate me,” Louis grumbles as he organizes his messy stack of opened textbooks and journals full of notes in a neat pile against the wall. His gigantic, clumsy black labradoodle named Clifford is just standing there watching Louis, head tilted to the side, confused. Even he knows Louis never cleans.

 

Liam only grunts in response, and then perks up when something shows up on his phone. Louis, nosey as he always is and having no boundaries between him and Liam since they’ve been friends for three years now, peers over his shoulder and reads the text message.

 

_ Here _  is all it reads, with an almost disturbing lack of emojis.

 

“How boring,” Louis scoffs, heading over to the door to press the button that allows his new roommate in the building.

 

“You’re gonna love him,” is Liam’s only response, in a stupid singsong voice. He cheerfully hops off the couch and leaves the apartment to help carries his bags up the three flights of stairs.

 

The elevator has been broken for about three months now and no maintenance worker has ever tried to fix it. This just goes to show what kind of place Louis lives in. The stairs are nothing to laugh at, either. They make Louis embarrassingly out of breath on the regular. Thus he usually tries to avoid them, most of the time by not going out very often, and sometimes by making Liam give him a piggyback ride.

 

Louis has three extra minutes to tidy up the flat before the door is opening again. Two people step inside, their arms loaded with bags and a surprising amount of canvases. Liam has told Louis his new roommate is an art student, so the canvases make sense. It’s still a bit surreal to see that most of his luggage isn’t bags of clothing and other belongings, but various art supplies.

 

It takes two trips for Liam and Louis’ new roommate to transport everything from his car, up the three flights of stairs, and down the long hallway to the flat. Louis knows he should offer to help but he’s too busy clearing his own miscellaneous belongings from around the house and depositing them in his bedroom. Hopefully his new roommate won’t think he’s a total slob.

 

Half of the couch is covered in all of Louis’ laundry. He carries the heaps of clean clothes back to his room and dumps them on the floor to deal with them later. By then, the other two are finished unloading, and when Louis heads back to the kitchen he’s met face to face with his new roommate letting Clifford sniff his hand curiously. Clifford seems to approve because he lets the guy pet his head, and he keens under the newfound attention, panting excitedly.

 

“Louis, this is Harry. Harry, this is Louis,” Liam introduces, waving his hands between the two vaguely. He’s grinning like he knows something Louis doesn’t. It’s unnerving.

 

Louis stands back for a quick moment to eye the guy up, really observing him. The pictures of him on Instagram were good but they didn’t do him justice.

 

He’s taller than Liam by an inch or two, yet his shoulders are hunched forward. They curve inward in a way that suggests he’s a little uncomfortable with his own stature. His skin is snowy and pale, not abnormal for a winter in New York, and his fingers are curled around the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles are white. The way he carries himself, a little awkwardly and a lot timidly, like he’s afraid of calling attention to himself, is so vaguely familiar, it startles Louis.

 

He isn’t meeting Louis’ eyes, but Louis knows in an instant he has seen this Harry Styles guy somewhere before.

 

Louis sticks out his hand in casual greeting, and Harry mumbles something like  _ nice to meet you _ , probably just to fill the lengthy silence.

 

“You look really familiar, have we had a class together or something?”

 

His eyebrows furrow like he’s in deep concentration, possibly recollecting various seating charts and classes to try to remember if Louis was in any of them. “Ummm-“

 

“Oh!” Louis exclaims, almost as if a light bulb flashes over his head suddenly in recognition. “I do remember you—you’re the one I saw walk into that pole the other day!”

 

“What?” Liam asks, laughter bubbling out of him as he looks between Louis, who is grinning in remembrance and welcome, and Harry, who is blushing furiously.

 

“Ummm…”

 

“So it  _ was _  you,” Louis surmises, unable to stop the twinge in his lips which quirks the corners up. He stifles a laugh at the memory, trying not to mortify his new roommate too much. Harry is squeezing the strap of his bag very tightly with one hand as the other comes up to cover his face in embarrassment.

 

Louis had been walking to class two days ago and just happened to witness the guy walking in front of him crash right into a streetlamp, hitting his face and everything. He had meant to check if the guy was okay but he was in a rush, and another girl already had her hand on his arm and was seemingly fixing the problem, so Louis just kept walking. He only laughed a little when he thought of the gangly, awkward looking guy walking straight into a pole. He wasn’t even doing anything—no phone or book in his hands, nothing to distract him. He just. Walked right into the streetlight like he didn’t even see it there in the middle of his projected path.

 

“Well, is your head okay?” Louis asks, reaching out to prod at the guy’s skull as if he’s checking for bumps. He doesn’t think anything of his own actions until he notices how uncomfortable his new roommate looks with the touch.

 

Harry pulls away carefully and nods, cheeks still aflame in rosy pink.

 

Liam clasps his hands together, backing away towards the door. Louis knows he’s going to meet Zayn for dinner tonight—Sunday night is their unofficial date night. Even though Liam denies they’re even dating, Louis knows the truth and he won’t ever let his best friend forget it. It’s fun to tease Liam about his secret boyfriend because Zayn is the only entity on the entire planet that truly turns Liam soft, and Louis finds enjoyment in flustering Liam. “I guess I’ll leave you guys to it, then.”

 

“’Kay,” Louis chirps, not even looking when Liam exits the apartment and closes the door behind him. His eyes are still on his new roommate, curious and inquiring. Harry is still just standing there like he doesn’t know what else to do, fingers curled around the strap of his duffel bag, the pink in his cheeks subtly paling back to the normal snowy color.

 

“Need any help unpacking?”

 

“I’m good, thank you,” Harry says quietly, snapping out of his daze and hesitantly stepping more inside the flat.

 

“Alright, well if you need any help just ask me. I have a bit of studying to do so I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

 

He gives his new roommate one last smile and then heads down the hall to his room, leaving the door open just in case Harry needs something. Louis hates studying in his room but he feels it’s important to give Harry the space he needs to move in, and from what Louis can tell Harry is quite shy so it’s probably a good idea to let him be alone for a little while.

 

Louis hates the idea of making him nervous and he wishes Harry didn’t look so uncomfortable. Rooming with Louis isn’t a bad or scary thing and he doesn’t want people to treat it that way, so when Harry barely says a word to him it kind of makes him sad.

 

Louis hasn’t roomed with anyone in more than four months and he doesn’t really need to room with anyone anyways. He can pay the rent himself, so really he’s doing this as a favor for Liam. Since sophomore year, Louis has consistently lived with a boyfriend—though not always the same one. In fact, he’s gone through a new guy at least once every three months, and in the in-between time he doesn’t exactly mind the week or two alone.

 

That’s Louis: always finding himself in fake-deep relationships that revolve around sex. The guy moves in after a month or so because things get serious quickly and besides, it’s easier to fuck around all the time if they live together. Despite the fact that he has a quick move-in rate, Louis hates commitment and so do the guys he usually chooses to date. Thus, the relationships end quickly.

 

No matter; it’s never been long since he’s found a new guy, so it’s never really been a problem and he’s almost always consistently had a roommate. It may be considered moving way too quickly in a relationship for them to move in together almost immediately, but that’s just the way it goes. His boyfriend always moves in to his place because it’s one of the nicer places on campus, despite the fact that the elevator doesn’t work. Plus his apartment is one of the only places that allows pets, and Louis and Clifford are a package deal.

 

In fact, these past four months are the longest he’s gone without a boyfriend and thus without a roommate. It has something to do with the fact that the last guy he dated was a total asshole and really perpetuated the Louis-is-a-slut rumor.

 

It isn’t true. That’s what Louis tells anyone who will listen, but as it turns out, not many people will listen. Only his friends Liam and Niall wanted to listen when he cleared up his name to them, explaining he didn’t really sleep around as much as everyone said he did. Just a bad reputation—a tiny mistake that blew up in his face and labeled him as a slut for the rest of his years at Columbia.

 

Whatever. The point is that Louis is doing Liam a favor by offering up his apartment to a stranger.

 

He doesn’t know much about Harry, but he does know what Liam has told him. Harry is a junior, one year below Louis, and he’s an art major. He’s quiet, shy, and pretty particular about things like organization and cleanliness, which may be a bit of a problem since he’s rooming with Louis now. He just went through a nasty breakup with his two-year boyfriend, and Liam says he’s quite shaken up about it so Louis should be gentle if he ever decides to approach the topic.

 

Not that he wants to. Approach it, that is. Louis knows how he is when his own breakups are scrutinized, so he plans on not being hypocritical and pestering Harry for his story. If Harry wants to give him the details, then fine, but Louis can’t really see that happening anytime soon. Especially since they’ve only said a few words to each other and Louis said most of them, anyways.

 

Gathering all the motivation he can muster, Louis cleans up his room before settling in bed to study. He has seven textbook chapters to read for a one-hundred level world history exam tomorrow, and the reading was assigned three weeks ago so clearly he’s been procrastinating. Oh well. Cramming is his specialty, especially for classes he should’ve taken his freshman year.

 

At seven o’clock, he gets hungry enough to close his book and venture to the kitchen. On the way there, he passes the spare bedroom which is now Harry’s, and catches a glimpse of his new roommate doing some very interesting decorating.

 

“What are you doing?” Louis questions, very tactfully, as he steps into the bedroom and eyes Harry warily. There’s not much in the room, and Harry is on the floor, smoothing the edges of a very large sheet. The sheet, and three others, span the surface area of the entire floor, covering the marred wood completely until it can’t be seen at all. The frameless mattress sits on top of one of the sheets, pressed up against the wall, and that’s the only furniture the room holds. It’s kind of sad. Louis thought he told Liam to tell Harry to bring his own furniture since the room was completely empty before he arrived.

 

Harry startles at the sound of Louis’ voice, flinching. He stands up and whirls around quickly like he thinks whoever the voice belongs to is going to hurt him or something.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I should’ve knocked,” Louis mutters, feeling bad for scaring the guy. He swallows thickly and repeats his original question, wondering if his entire relationship with this guy will just be filled with awkward, tentative moments like this. “What’re the sheets for?”

 

“Oh, um, I’m covering the floor so I don’t get paint on it.”

 

“Oh. Don’t you work in a classroom, though? Or like, a studio I guess.”

 

“I do usually, but I work at night a lot so I paint in my room sometimes. It’s just, um.” He pauses, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear with shaking fingers. Louis is impressed because this is the greatest amount of words he has used since he arrived. “It’s easier to cover the floor so I don’t have to clean up every time I spill or drop a brush or something. Sorry.”

 

“Huh, okay. Well I was just gonna order pizza, want any?”

 

Harry sits back down on his heels and runs his fingers over the paint-marred sheet, dragging his nails back and forth against the threads. “Ummm, sure.”

 

“’Kay. What toppings? Sausage, pepperoni, ham?”

 

“I’m vegetarian,” he says quietly. “Sorry.”

 

“Oh, no reason to apologize,” Louis laughs a little, feeling uncomfortable, which is something he doesn’t feel very often. “Then I guess, like, what vegetables do you want?” Louis doesn’t think he’s ever eaten a slice of pizza with a vegetable on it. It doesn’t seem like something he would enjoy. He leans against the door frame waiting for an answer.

 

“Umm, I usually get pineapple. Which is a fruit.”

 

Louis’ eyes widen slightly in disbelief. Never has he eaten a single vegetable on pizza and never has he ever met anyone who actually likes pineapple on pizza. If Harry had been anyone else in the entire world, Louis would rib him for it, tease him relentlessly and never let him live it down. But when he thinks of the way Harry flinched when he entered the room, he decides he should probably be a bit gentler and maybe forget the raillery altogether, at least until they know each other a little more.

 

“Uh, okay. Well in my opinion that’s gross, but you do you. Maybe we can get half pineapple and half real toppings. Do you want anything else on your side?” Not as gentle as he anticipated but it’s better than what it could’ve been.

 

Harry grimaces a little but doesn’t banter like Louis expects him too. He just takes the insult, accepts it like it’s true. That makes Louis even more uncomfortable, because Harry is basically letting Louis push him around and that’s not a good thing. He needs to stand up for himself.

 

“Just pineapple is fine, thank you.”

 

“Okay, I’ll order a large so we can have leftovers. Do you want anything else?”

 

“No thank you.” Harry’s voice is small and it leaves a bad feeling in Louis’ stomach. He doesn’t know who this Harry kid is but he’s getting kind of worried. He’s never met someone so tentative before, someone so afraid of their own skin. Like he wants to step out of it or something.

 

“Uhhh, alright.” He pulls himself from the door frame and makes his way back to his room, opting to order on his laptop instead of calling on the phone. He may be a people person but it’s just so much easier to do it online.

 

While he’s waiting for the delivery person to arrive, he continues studying, but doesn’t get much done because he’s distracted by his hunger, not to mention his strange new roommate in the bedroom beside his own. So he gives up and scrolls through Twitter for a while until he hears the buzzer.

 

By the time Louis finishes paying for the pizza and tipped the delivery girl, and Clifford has finished barking excitedly at the intrusion, Harry has left his bedroom and joined him in the entryway. Louis closes the door and ushers Harry into the kitchen where the tiny dining table is. The thing is, Louis may be a bit of a disorganized mess, but he isn’t gross with food. He always cleans his dishes and never leaves food around the house. He always eats in the kitchen.

 

Harry doesn’t complain. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. Louis accepts his task of getting a conversation out of him.

 

“So you’re friends with Liam?” Louis asks, figuring it’s safe territory to start with something they have in common. He wants to ask about his major because that’s a typical first conversation between college students, but he doesn’t know much about art and fears it’ll lead to a dead end.

 

“I am,” Harry says, not adding anything else. He’s either socially inept or he doesn’t want to talk to Louis. Maybe a mix of both.

 

“How do you know him? When did you meet?”

 

Harry puts a single piece of pineapple pizza on his plate but doesn’t bite into it. Meanwhile Louis is stuffing his mouth with double pepperoni.

 

“We met through a mutual friend, Zayn Malik?” Harry says, asking to see if Louis knows who he is. Louis nods. Zayn is Liam’s sort-of boyfriend. A fourth year art major with a bit of a superiority complex, which isn’t particularly unfounded. “Um, my freshman year.”

 

“Oh, cool.” There isn’t much information there so Louis decides to change topics, going to his plan B. “So you’re an art major then?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Well I’m in chem engineering, so not too much in common there though. But it’s nice to have a roommate with different interests, sometimes. Broadening your horizons and all that. Do you have any projects you can show me?”

 

“Uhhh…”

 

“You don’t have to. Sorry,” He backtracks very quickly, voice gentle like he’s talking to one of his frightened younger siblings, “I didn’t mean to like, be pushy. I know art can be personal a lot of times.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry says quietly, picking at the corner of his pineapple pizza.

 

It’s silent from then on out. Louis feels too award to continue the conversation after he wrongly asked to see some of Harry’s art, and Harry clearly isn’t very keen on talking either. Louis busies himself with his phone and eats quickly, retreating back to his bedroom as soon as he finishes, telling Harry he has to study.

 

He ends up sleeping instead, with Clifford curled up by his side like always. But before he’s completely knocked out he thinks about Harry and how shy he is. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to get close enough to him to have a normal conversation with him, or if they’ll always be in this awkward limbo of almost-acquaintanceship.

 

The next morning his alarm goes off too early, and he gets out of bed too early, and everything sucks. It’s seven fifty when he walks down the hall and sees Harry’s room is closed. He doesn’t know if that means Harry is still asleep, awake but in his room, or not in the apartment all together, but it’s strangely silent and that’s that. They never compared schedules anyways so he has no idea where Harry is.

 

No matter. Louis doesn’t have time for breakfast. If he wants to make his eight o’clock class, all he has time for is his shoes. He stumbles out the door, sleepy despite his ten hours of sleep, and somehow makes it to his class only two minutes late. Of course it’s a freshman level class so everyone is already there with their pens and journals ready for class. When he looks up he sees the professor glaring at him. Louis takes his usual seat in the back and finally remembers he has an exam today.

 

The day goes like normal and Louis pretty much forgets he has a new roommate back at home. So it’s a bit scary when he opens the door and sees a practical stranger in the living room.

 

It’s less scary, however, when his eyes land on the ‘intruder’ and he sees Harry there, on the couch, curled up and taking a nap. Clifford is curled up half on Harry’s lap, sleeping soundly, face content. The TV is on to a station Louis doesn’t recognize, so he uses the remote to check the guide and sees the show is called  _ Planet Earth _ . In hindsight he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course his new strange roommate likes to watch weird nature shows.

 

Somehow, though, Louis gets drawn into the episode. This one is about deserts and he finds himself sitting on the small couch beside Harry’s sleeping figure, watching beetles crawl over the sand. It’s more interesting than it should be.

 

It isn’t until the commercials come on, louder than the actual episode, that Harry wakes up. He rubs his eyes sleepily and yawns a while before noticing Louis beside him.

 

“Oh, hi.”

 

His voice is tentative and shy, and for some reason it makes Louis sad. No one is this timid just naturally; he’s certain Harry’s demeanor must be a result of something. So what happened to Harry to make him so afraid to just be?

 

“Hey Harold,” Louis greets, joking but apparently not enough to make Harry laugh. There’s a very long, awkward silence before Louis decides to fill it. “So you’re an art major, you’re friends with Zayn, and you watch weird animal shows in your free time. Is there anything else I should know about you?”

 

Harry blushes. Like actually honest to god blushes. Louis is pretty sure he hasn’t seen anyone blush since high school. He doesn’t know what to do with this information.

 

“It’s not weird,” Harry defends quietly, much to Louis’ surprise. He’s sort of sticking up for himself but he doesn’t sound like it. “It’s  _ Planet Earth _ . Which is, like, a common show. And it inspires me. Like, my art, I mean.”

 

“Really? It does?” Louis looks back to the show, confused, and sees the stunning landscape of the Sahara Desert reflected back at him. It’s beautiful, Louis sees, so maybe that’s why. He doesn’t exactly understand but he’s trying. It should scare him that he isn’t making a joke, but he also thinks Harry might crack into pieces if Louis teases him even gently.

 

“Yeah,” Harry responds, looking embarrassed, cheeks still tinted pink. “It’s beautiful. And calming.”

 

“Okay, I’ll give you that. I mean, do what you gotta do to create, I guess.”

 

“Right.” Harry reaches for the remote and flicks the TV off. The episode wasn’t over yet. He stands up from the couch and heads back towards the hallway without another word, leaving Louis just sitting there wondering if he had upset Harry. He doesn’t seem like the type to leave a show halfway through. And Clifford is distraught now from being displaced, confused and disappointed by Harry’s sudden absence, so he shifts over until his long body is completely covering Louis’ lap.

 

Louis leans back into the couch and turns the TV back on, curious about this  _ Planet Earth _ . He ends up watching the next two episodes too, even though he has a shitload of lab calculations to do for tomorrow. He’ll have to do them later. Oh well, that’s what coffee is for.

  
  
  
  


…

  
  
  
  
  


The rest of the week is much of the same, just like that first day of Louis and Harry rooming together. Harry is nowhere to be found all day until Louis gets home from his last class and finds him curled up on the couch, sleeping soundly with Clifford sleeping on top of him.  _ Planet Earth _  isn’t always on, though Louis watches when it is—when it isn’t, the TV is off, and Louis just passes by to go to his room or to the kitchen, out of breath from the three flights of stairs.

 

Does Harry even go to class? Louis really doesn’t know. He never sees him leaving, but unless he’s on the couch napping, Harry is nowhere to be seen.

 

It’s not much of a change from the past four months Louis spent alone. Yet, somehow now, with a roommate, he feels even lonelier. It has something to do with the fact that Harry is so detached, Louis feels as though he’s living with a ghost.

 

The other problem is that this is the first time Louis since freshman year that Louis is living with someone who isn’t his boyfriend. It feels strange to have someone else in the apartment that he isn’t allowed to cuddle up to whenever he wants. Not that his old boyfriends ever wanted much more than sex, and rarely prioritized non-sexual physical touch, but the point still stands.

 

So yeah, Louis is a little concerned. Harry doesn’t talk much, he’s always locked up in his room, and he never has anyone over. Louis wonders what he does all day, if he goes to his classes or if he just stays locked up working on his art in his room. Sitting on the canvas-covered floor doing god knows what.

 

The week is full of strange mediocrity and it isn’t until Friday night that something  _ bad _  happens.

 

It’s nine o’clock in the evening and Louis is holed up in the living room, wearing his pajamas. He’s flipping through the TV stations, when he sees  _ Planet Earth _  again. Surprised that Harry isn’t curled up on the couch either watching the episode or napping, he makes the split-second decision to head down the hall towards Harry’s room.

 

When he gets there, he doesn’t hesitate before knocking on the door. Vaguely he considers the fact that Harry might be asleep, but it’s so early in the night that Louis doesn’t worry. He knocks loud enough to hear but doesn’t get a response. So, taking a deep breath, he twists the door open.

 

The room is empty of Harry. All of his art is covered too, by thin sheets. Louis is glad. He had forgotten he might’ve seen something Harry hadn’t felt comfortable sharing. His eyes land on the empty bed with a pile of messy blankets and quilts. He closes the door quietly and wonders where the hell Harry is.

 

Not that it’s any of his business, of course, but sometimes he’d like a bit of a heads up just to know where Harry was going. That’s typical roommate behavior, right? Louis is pretty sure it isn’t too much to ask.

 

Whatever. For a second he considers going out to a bar to pick someone up and maybe go home with him. With his reputation that isn’t so out of the question. But he quickly dismisses the idea, because the thought of squeezing into skinny jeans is so ludicrous. Instead he curls up on the couch in his now typical spot beside Harry’s typical spot, and falls asleep watching wolves chase rabbits and deer on TV.

 

A few months ago, during the time in between relationships, he would be out right now fucking around, flirting with boys and acting as the slut everyone always accused him of being. It’s funny, when he thinks about it now, how easily he fell into the role when he finally accepted it as his own. Call someone something enough, and they’ll start to really act like it. Call someone something enough and they’ll begin to believe it.

 

It’s four AM when he’s jolted awake by unfamiliar noises, like waking up from a garbled dream and facing the disorientation head on. Like opening your eyes and not knowing what’s up and what’s down, not knowing where you are at all. There’s the door, opening, then closing. Feet against the wood floor. Shuffling. And above it all, the distinct sound of someone crying.

 

It’s not necessarily a familiar sound, but it’s one he can place with chilling ease because it’s so distinctive. Soft, gasping breaths on the verge of hysteria but somehow holding back from falling off the ledge. Ugly sniffles and labored breathing and the imagined sound of tears leaking down rosy, frightened cheeks. Streaking skin with glistening warnings. A physical indicator of sorrow. Tangible misery.

 

Louis sits up, rubbing his eyes sleepily, and flicks the light on. There’s this revolting feeling of worry rising to the surface and it begins to make him feel sick, his stomach swirling hideously. His missing roommate is halfway to the hallway when Louis’ eyes land on him.

 

“Harry?” Louis asks, though he knows it’s him. Just, anything to get him to stop running away.

 

Harry stops but doesn’t turn around. His figure is shadowy and hunched over like he always stands. Like he’s afraid of taking up space; like he’s afraid of being himself.

 

They still have yet to have a proper conversation, one with questions and answers and lots of words. The small talk has failed, thus far. There are only so many times they can discuss the weather before the topic turns so incredibly banal, they find themselves turning in circles and even walking backwards. This is why Louis doesn’t really expect much when he asks, “Harry is everything okay?”

 

He doesn’t turn around. Instead he looks like he’s going to bolt down the hall towards his room, lock himself inside, and never come out. Louis can’t have that happen. He can’t have that happen because it’s only been a few days but he is already so sick of watching Harry evade, watching him hide, watching him crumble into himself like a sinkhole in the earth. He can’t have that happen because Harry can’t continue wasting his entire life running away from everything all at once.

 

“Harry?” He tries again, standing up and crossing the living room to reach him. He still has his back to him and Louis doesn’t want to push it. But he has this sinking feeling in his stomach that something is terribly wrong. Why else would he be crying?

 

He’s still crying, of course. Quiet, broken sobs. But for some dumb reason he says, “I’m fine,” like he thinks that’ll make Louis leave him alone. Like he has said that before and whoever was listening to him actually believed him, or pretended to believe him. Like no one ever cared enough to actually push him until he split open and told the truth.

 

“You’re not,” Louis tells him, thinking that if he presses a little harder Harry will fall compliant and just communicate for once. He wants to reach out and comfort him with physical touch. But he’s afraid it’ll startle Harry, just like the first day when he entered his room and Harry flinched at the sound of his voice. So he holds his arms tight at his sides and ignores the tingling in his fingers which is telling him to reach out and touch. “Tell me what’s wrong, Harry,” He breathes, voice gentle, quiet, and as un-threatening as he can make it.

 

Harry doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, even. Just stands there all still and shadowy so Louis can’t see his face. And there’s this darkness radiating off of him, this heaviness. Brokenness, more than barely there, that beckons feelings of grief and misery. Years of mistreatment, buried beneath a shy demeanor and dull green eyes which stare resolutely out at nothing. That’s what it feels like.

 

“Harry. Let’s just- Let’s go sit on the couch... I recorded your show. We can watch it together, yeah?” He says this all slowly, articulating each word, feeling a certain type of nervousness deep in the pit of his stomach. Louis is a little hysteric and barely concealing it, but he has to do something. He has to. He isn’t going to let this near stranger just lock himself in a room when he’s clearly upset. When there’s clearly something wrong.

 

Harry covers his face with his hands, maybe to hide the tears, but finally turns around. He doesn’t say anything but follows Louis back to the couch and sits down next to him, tentatively with his face still covered like he’s afraid to be seen.

 

Louis doesn’t press him on it. He selects one of the episodes he recorded and pushes play, but keeps the volume down low so they can talk, if he can somehow get a conversation out of Harry.

 

“Hey roomie,” Louis says softly, poking Harry in the knee. He flinches, and Louis backtracks. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

 

Harry’s face is still in his hands as he leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs. He doesn’t say a word, but very slowly he removes his hands from his face.

 

Louis isn’t expecting to see anything except for Harry’s beautiful face streaked with splotchy tears. So when his hands finally fall away, and Louis really sees him, he’s shocked.

 

He’s shocked, not because Harry is crying, but because of something else, something wicked and unnerving.

 

Because of the bruises.

 

“Shit, what happened to you?”

 

Harry’s sobs ring clear above the sound of nothing else except for the heating kicking on which sets the tone with a constant hum like a strange background current. Louis listens to Harry’s gasping, desperate breaths for a while just thinking about the world and how it could be so cruel. He feels helpless to do anything, and Harry is curling in on himself by the minute.

 

The thing is, Harry’s face looks beaten up and completely bruised. His lip is split and leaking crimson blood, his jaw and cheeks blossomed with gruesome violet and indigo. It looks very painful, and a million terrifying thoughts are running through his mind right now. He’s thinking,  _ Harry is hurt. Harry got jumped on the street. He got into a bar fight. He ran into another pole. _

 

With nothing left to do, he reaches out to very carefully wrap his arm around his shoulder, hoping Harry will find some sort of benign comfort in the touch. Harry doesn’t pull away like Louis expects him to. Instead, he sinks into the grasp, helplessly defeated, and lets Louis hold him.

 

No words are exchanged. Harry just cries and cries and cries, just like that, with Louis’ arm wrapped around his shoulders. He sobs quietly like he’s afraid to call attention to himself even though Louis already has his sole attention focused on him, like a nervous doctor eager to tend to a patient’s brutal wounds.

 

Harry’s body is normally tall and lanky but not like this, not when he’s curling up infinitesimally and folded his arms over his stomach like he’s trying to hold the pieces together. Like if he lets go, he’ll shatter.

 

So Louis pulls Harry into his chest and strokes his back and lets him cry and cry and cry, wetting Louis’ soft t-shirt with his dripping tears. It’s not the most comfortable position, nor the most comfortable situation, but Louis doesn’t complain. He would be a selfish fool if he complained. For a solid week he has gotten no emotion but shyness and vague embarrassment from Harry. The sadness and hysterics are not be desirable, but they’re a change towards the more emotional side of the spectrum, as opposed to the closed-off and cold side.

 

Harry doesn’t stop crying until an hour later, and Louis is about to say something to him until he realizes Harry is asleep. His cheeks are streaked with salty contrails, his eyes red and puffy and the rest of his skin pale and modeled. Due to his stuffy nose, his lips are parted slightly and he breathes through his mouth in little quiet breaths that Louis can only hear because they’re right beside his ear. It’s sad, maybe even on the verge of pathetic, but so unbelievably endearing.

 

Louis doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what the hell actually happened, but he does know that he’s exhausted. Using his free arm, he turns the TV off, and then decides to flick off the light too. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to move Harry, in case he might wake up, so Louis gets as comfortable as he can, curling up on the couch and hugging the near stranger in his arms. He’s afraid of what’s wrong and he doesn’t know how to fix it. So he cuddles Harry close, getting comfortable and resting his head on top of Harry’s messy curls.

 

This is the most he’s done to help a friend in a while, and Harry can hardly be called a friend. It’s a bit surprising—he isn’t used to staying up late to comfort people. But he feels honored that Harry has allowed him to do this, to see him in such a vulnerable state, even without explaining what exactly happened, since they barely know each other.

 

Four months ago Louis went through a very bad breakup and things haven’t been the same since. The thing is, the relationship ending very terribly, with his ex-boyfriend doing something despicable in order to get revenge.

 

He had saved some of Louis’ more provocative selfies on his phone from when they were still dating, because sexting was a big part of their relationship. Louis isn’t reserved by any means, and he isn’t ashamed of his body either, so he had no qualms about sending nudes. Until his ex-boyfriend emailed them to every single one of Louis’ employers, past and present, and posted them all over Facebook and Instagram too.

 

It had been a very bad day, when he did that. One minute Louis’ life was normal and the next everyone was looking at him funny on the streets. Even his own friends started pulling away, believing Louis was a slut and a whore and someone not to hang around, for fear that their reputation would be tarnished just by association. The worst was when Louis lost his job, though. That was what really sucked. He could deal with the awkwardness of half the university seeing pictures of him wearing lingerie and fucking himself with a dildo. He could handle most of his friends becoming distant because they thought what everyone said about Louis was true. But losing the best job he had ever had, playing guitar and singing during the evenings at his favorite bar only a block away from his apartment? Yeah, that really sucked.

 

Louis had gone to the police, trying to file a report for sexual harassment and defamation of character. The officer had nodded along, very unimpressed, and didn’t even bat a lash when Louis shoved his phone in his face, showing him all the places his ex-boyfriend posted Louis’ private pictures. By the time Louis left the police department, the officer hadn’t even written a single word down in his journal even though he promised to investigate. Though it was frustrating, Louis knew it was a lost cause. What were they supposed to do, anyway? Give his ex a verbal reprimanding? As if. The damage had been done.

 

So Louis lied low for a while. There wasn’t much to do. The only two people who stuck around were his friends Liam and Niall, and other than that he was alone. He tried to start dating again, but of course his reputation preceded him, so the boys he approached either ran away screaming, or expected Louis to put out right then and there. There was no in between—they were either horrified at Louis’ supposed sluttiness, or turned on by it, enough to the point that they completely objectified him.

 

So Louis gave up, and that’s where he is now. Doing a favor for Liam, maybe only because Louis can’t get another boyfriend and he really misses having a roommate.

 

That’s where he is now, with a very strange and shy but somehow beautiful person, curled up in his lap, exhausted from crying. With bright purple and blue bruises blossoming across his cheeks and his jaw. His lip is split and oozing blood. Louis wants to wipe it off with the pad of his thumb, but again he’s afraid it will wake Harry and he’ll start crying again. So Louis just holds him a little closer and promises to get an answer out of his roommate in the morning.

 

With the surplus of unanswered questions clouding his mind, it’s a long while before he falls asleep.

  
  
  


…

Harry wakes up first. He starts shuffling and then Louis is up too, sleepy and disoriented, back aching from the strange position. Clifford is lying on top of them, snoring loudly, and rendering them both immobile.

 

There’s a lengthy moment of languid confusion where they’re wrapped up in each other and it feels disturbingly  _ right _ , like this was meant to happen. In this moment, Louis doesn’t question it at all, and that scares him.

 

There’s something peaceful about it. About waking up to find himself curled around Harry. Harry who is sleepily pawing at his eye with one hand, the other still wrapped around Louis’ shoulder and grasping the back of his shirt, fingers clutching the material both loosely and adamantly all at once. Almost as if he’s afraid to hold on too tightly, but afraid to let go at the same time. Tentative but wanting, needing.

 

When Louis opens his eyes to the bright morning sunlight streaming in through the windows, his gaze lands on Harry’s battered face, expression now wild and scared. He looks like he wants to escape but doesn’t know how. His hand is still clutching Louis’ shirt right below his neck, fingers twisted into the fabric desperately. The blood leaking from his split lip has dried and turned an ugly shade of rusty brown. But the dried blood is the least of his worries, considering how distraught Harry’s expression is.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Louis soothes, shifting Clifford off of them so Harry doesn’t feel trapped. He doesn’t know what compels him to say it, maybe the fact that Harry might’ve gotten jumped last night and that’s why he’s frightened, but he says, “You’re safe here.”

 

The words fall heavy in the air, ugly and out of place. Like laughter at a funeral. Harry whimpers quietly. Like, actually whimpers. The pathetic sound makes something small quiver in Louis’ chest. Harry drops his hand from where he had previously been holding onto the back of Louis’ shirt, and uses it to cover his face and groan quietly in his palms.

 

“Harry?” Louis asks quietly, going for soft and tentative. He doesn’t want to startle him. The situation is fragile. He needs Harry to be as comfortable as possible if he really wants to get to the bottom of this, if he really wants to find out what’s wrong. There’s a large possibility of Harry retreating within himself like before and Louis can’t have that. He can’t.

 

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t cry, either, which might be good or it might not. He just holds his face in his hands, puffing out quiet breaths into the otherwise still and silent air. Some of the bruises are visible, peeking out from behind Harry’s long, thin fingers. Gruesome and ugly blemishes tarnishing his ashen skin.

 

“Harry, please tell me what’s going on… Please tell me what happened to you,” Louis begs, feeling helpless. He doesn’t know much about Harry, but he knows now that he wants to make sure he’s safe. It isn’t a question of why he should care; it’s a question of why he shouldn’t.

 

He doesn’t respond. Instead he stands up abruptly and disappears down the hall to his room. Louis remains on the couch wondering if he should follow. He doesn’t.

 

Ten minutes later Harry emerges, fully dressed in black leggings and a white t-shirt under a very strange jean jacket covered in patches with song lyrics and pins in the shape of rainbows. The laces of his worn-out pink high-top converse are tied loosely. There’s an expensive-looking camera hanging on a strap around his neck, and he has a pair of glasses pushing his hair back. Louis hadn’t known Harry wore glasses. Looking a million times more pulled together than he looked ten minutes ago, he’s heading for the door.

 

“Where are you going?” Louis asks, suddenly much more awake. He had expected they would talk about the reason Harry stumbled into the apartment last night, sobbing and obviously beaten up, but now Louis sees how wrong he was to even imagine that. Of course Harry isn’t going to talk to him. Why would he?

 

“To the studio,” he responds decidedly, not looking back at Louis and not giving him a chance to argue. He steps outside and closes the door shut behind him, disappearing in a flash of bruises marking his skin and colorful pins decorating his jacket. The apartment is once again dissolved into disappointing, lonely quiet.

 

Louis considers going after him. He really does. But then he thinks it might be better just to let Harry have some space. Art is clearly an outlet for him, so it’s probably a good thing he’s going to the studio. Even if it makes Louis worried that he’ll be out and about, just like he was last night, and he might get hurt again.

 

There’s nothing he can do about it, so Louis gives up for the time being at least. He has a ton of shit to do today so he heads to the library to work on his thesis. As a senior he has the privilege of claiming a study room of his own for the entire semester, which is a really nice benefit. Even if it means he’s staying holed up in a room all day on a Saturday. The good thing is one of the walls is entirely comprised of windows, so he has a nice view of the city as he does research.

 

He grabs a late lunch from the library café, exhausted from a day of work. When he walks through the main part of the library he notices a lot of eyes on him, but he ignores them as always. A group of underclassmen sitting in the lounge area whisper back and forth, very obviously about Louis if the way their eyes flicker to him is anything to go by. They snicker when he passes and he has half a mind to ignore them even though he desperately wants to flip them off at the very least.  _ Good god, it’s like high school all over again. _

 

It’s a relief to be back in his apartment later, even though he just had to walk up three flights of stairs to get there.

 

Harry is there when he gets back. Louis greets him and Harry returns the greeting but doesn’t meet his eyes. His injuries are bright and intense, begging to be called attention to. But neither one of them says a single word about what happened last night. Louis desperately wants to ask again, but his questioning was so futile this morning he decides to just fuck it and go to his room.

 

Of course he knows he shouldn’t be angry at Harry. He isn’t angry, really—just frustrated. Obviously something is wrong and Louis wants to help in any way he can. But Harry isn’t letting him.

 

He ends up in bed with his laptop propped up on his lap playing Disney movies from his childhood.  _ The Lion King _ , for example. He should be studying or doing something more productive but he really, really needs a break. And besides, it’s Saturday. He can afford a few hours wasted.

 

After the second movie he gets hungry, and that’s what motivates him to leave the warm confines of his duvet, heading out towards the kitchen. On the way there he passes Harry nestled into the couch, lying on his side with his knees pulled to his chest, face smashed into the cushion. There’s a half-full mug of tea on the coffee table, probably cold now, with a tattered leather journal beside it. Louis has seen Harry writing in it, so he knows it’s different from the sketchbook he carries around all the time but never opens in front of Louis.

 

Louis sighs, quieting his steps as he makes his way to the kitchen in search of food. He ends up with leftover pasta heating up in the microwave. He means to stop it before the time reaches zero, but he doesn’t make it there in time, and the shrill beep rings through the otherwise silent apartment. Of course, it wakes Harry.

 

“Sorry,” Louis mutters, looking back to see Harry sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. He feels like an asshole for waking him, especially when it’s obvious he could use the sleep.

 

“’S alright.”

 

“You like taking naps, yeah?” It’s not the best conversation starter but Louis has been wondering why Harry is always asleep at the strangest times, always on the couch and never in his bedroom. Louis isn’t complaining about getting to see Harry cuddled up with Clifford on the couch, but it’s kind of worrisome considering how often it happens.

 

“Yeah, I don’t sleep much at night.”

 

“Oh. That sucks. Why not?”

 

Harry sits up straighter but looks down at his lap, very carefully avoiding Louis’ gaze. His shoulders are hunched forward and his arms are folded over his chest like he’s trying to keep warm. “Dunno. It’s a lot of things I guess.”

 

“Bed not comfy enough?”

 

He makes a weak, noncommittal sound in response. “Just easier for me to fall asleep during the day, I guess.”

 

That doesn’t make much sense at all but Louis isn’t one to judge so he sets his plate down on the kitchen table and sits on the chair.

 

He has to ask. Even if it’s out of place and rude and insensitive, he has to ask. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?” He wants to add  _ I’m worried about you _ , but it isn’t his place. They barely know each other. They’re just roommates, not even friends. Just two people thrust together for the sake of financials, because a shared apartment is obviously cheaper than only one person paying for it. Because Harry’s boyfriend left him and now he needs a new place to stay.

 

Harry just shakes his head, still staring at his hands which are now twisted nervously in his lap, fiddling with the edge of his jumper.

 

“Does anyone know what happened? Does Liam know?”

 

“No. No one knows.”

 

Louis wants to scream. He can’t justify why he feels so strongly about someone he barely even knows, except for the fact that it’s probably just human decency to inquire about a person’s mysterious bruises. “Harry,  _ please _  tell me, I’m worried. Is everything okay?”

 

“Everything is fine.”

 

“Where did you go last night?”

 

Harry’s voice is defensive when he says, “I went out. Which is normal. Something everyone does.”

 

“Yeah, but you didn’t go to a bar or anything, did you.” Louis doesn’t know why he’s being so pushy but he can’t help it, he needs to know what happened. There’s this protectiveness thrumming in his veins and he just can’t quell the urge to press and press and press until Harry breaks. “So where did you go?”

 

Harry’s jaw clenches. “I was visiting my boyfriend. Not that it’s any of your business.”

 

“You don’t have a boyfriend, though.” Blunt and harsh and not the best thing to say. Louis should learn to keep his mouth shut every once in a while.

 

Harry rolls his eyes, standing up from the couch and picking up his mug. “That’s what Liam told you, then?”

 

Louis stares at him, pasta long forgotten. He’s so confused and decides to wait for Harry to fill him in. He doesn’t even know where to begin, or which line of questioning to start with. It’s all too intrusive and insulting. So he remains quiet.

 

“Everyone thinks they know me, but they don’t know shit. So fuck off.”

 

Then he disappears down the hallway and doesn’t quite slam the door to his bedroom, but closes it so forcefully the sound resonates through the otherwise quiet air.

 

“Fuck,” Louis says to himself, so quietly only he can hear.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

“Liam, you need to tell me what happened.”

 

“It’s not mine to tell, Tommo, I said that already. Besides, I don’t know the whole story.”

 

“But he won’t  _ tell _  me,” Louis whines, somewhat childishly as he grabs Liam’s hands across the table. They’re having breakfast at a coffee shop to catch up, since they haven’t seen each other in a week. As soon as Liam asked about Harry, Louis’ mood fell through the floor. “I’m so worried. Something is wrong.”

 

“Have you tried asking him?”

 

“Of course I have, idiot. He gets defensive and cold and refuses to tell me.”

 

“So what happened then? Why are you so worried?”

 

Louis looks around, paranoid someone will overhear. He’s always like this now, worried he’ll ruin someone else’s reputation the way he ruined his own. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

 

Liam looks offended Louis would even suggest that. “Of course not.”

 

“You have to promise.”

 

“I do, I promise I won’t tell,” Liam agrees, linking his pinkie with Louis’ and giving him a squeeze.

 

“Okay, well…” Louis decides to just go for it and get it all out at once. “On Friday night I’m exhausted so I fall asleep on the couch, yeah? And then I wake up at four-fucking-AM because someone is crying. And I see Harry halfway to his room so I ask him if he’s okay but he doesn’t say anything. And fuck… Li, there were bruises all over his face. Like he got in a fight and lost or something. So then I’m holding him on the couch as he sobs into my shoulder until he falls asleep. Then the next day he doesn’t say shit about it and when I ask him he gets pissed.”

 

Liam looks concerned, but collected as he always is. Liam’s calmness soothes the anxiety thrumming in Louis’ veins, allowing his heart to calm down a little. It isn’t enough. He jitters in his seat, unable to sit still, knee bouncing up and down incessantly, fingers tapping a quiet beat on the table top.

 

“Did he tell you anything?”

 

“Yesterday after he got really pissed at me he said he was visiting his boyfriend.”

 

“Fuck. You mean his ex?”

 

“No, he said his boyfriend. Not his ex. So not only am I worried about him but I’m also so fucking confused.”

 

Liam fiddles with his napkin, tearing off small pieces from the corner and folding them into tiny squares. “I don’t know much about his ex because he never told me a thing, really. Especially after they broke up. But if they’re back together… God, I don’t know. They were so bad together, Lou. The guy was a total jackass. So controlling and just, like,  _ mean _  to Harry. Super pissy and possessive.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Liam sighs. “Like, he never wanted Harry to be anywhere when it wasn’t with him, but I always thought Harry kind of liked that sort of attention. Like, to be needed by someone. He didn’t mind that he could only go out if the bastard went with him. I dunno. The entire situation was fucked up.”

 

Liam doesn’t swear often; it’s bad for his image as the calm, collected, reasonable person he is. The uncommon vocabulary makes Louis swallow hard, nervous, fingers trembling against his cup of tea. “But they broke up?”

 

“Yeah, about a month ago. Harry calls me crying saying he doesn’t have a place to stay and he doesn’t know where to go, so I tell him he can stay with me until he finds somewhere else. You know how busy I am with school, though; I didn’t have time to babysit him. The past month we haven’t seen each other much, but I’m one of his closest friends I guess. He doesn’t tell me shit though. I just know he like, gets these nightmares?”

 

Louis’ fingers stop tapping on the table. “Nightmares?”

 

“I’d hear him moaning and crying and I’d go in to shake him out of it. He always told me it was fine but I knew something wasn’t right. I mean, it’s obviously not normal. But he’s had a lot of …hurt in his lifetime, I guess. Lots of shit he doesn’t deserve.”

 

“What? What do you mean?”

 

“I always hear shit about his parents. He was adopted, you know? Shit like that always happens. I’m not sure if there was any physical abuse, but they definitely didn’t love him as much as they should’ve. I don’t think he’s in contact with them anymore, which I guess is a good thing.”

 

“Physical abuse,” Louis echoes, staring dazedly at the table and thinking of the injuries defacing Harry’s skin. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

 

“Be there for him, I guess. Try to talk to him. Maybe not about this, but about other things. God knows he needs more friends.”

 

“Fuck. I’m so worried.”

 

“I know. He doesn’t deserve this shit.”

 

“I should go. I’m gonna…  I don’t know. I’m gonna try to talk to him again.”

 

Liam smiles reassuringly, gathering up his things as well. “Good luck.”

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

Harry is in his room when Louis gets back home.

 

Louis knows this because for once he can hear him, instead of the typical vacant silence aside from the hum of the refrigerator. He enters the apartment and is surprised to be greeted by the sound of a deep, lovely voice singing. Louis doesn’t recognize the song.

 

In a split second decision he decides not to bother Harry for fear that he might stop singing. Instead he makes himself a cup of tea and pretends he isn’t listening in. Clearly Harry hasn’t heard the door open, or otherwise he would’ve stopped by now. That makes it feel like Louis is eavesdropping on something he shouldn’t, but the guilt of it all is offset by the fact that Harry has a really lovely voice and Louis wants to listen to it for a while longer.

 

So he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and tries to get busy reading the next chapter for his class tomorrow morning, but he ends up staring out the window and letting the sound of Harry’s voice soothe him into a deep pensiveness. For someone who rarely speaks, he has a lovely singing voice, and Louis feels remorseful knowing he’s missed out on it for so long now.

 

“My love took me down to the river to silence me, and when he left I could not speak…”

 

The lyrics are macabre. It ignites some part of him, somewhere in the deep dark marrow of his bones. Louis shivers involuntarily, goosebumps rising on his skin.

 

“I lay on the ground, I tried to scream,” Harry sighs, his voice flowing through the air like water from a stream. Smooth, chilly, and deep “But no sound did come out. I could only bleed blue…”

 

Louis is so lost in thought, he doesn’t notice when Harry stops singing. Nor does he notice when the door to his bedroom opens. Nor does he notice the sound of bare feet padding against the wood floor to the kitchen.

 

There’s a small gasp and Louis turns around to see Harry standing in the entryway of the kitchen, eyes wide in surprise. His hands are by his sides, trembling as always, and his eyes are pale and shiny, glistening with tears. His skin is a colorful palette that would be beautiful if it hadn’t any meaning; violet and indigo for the bruises, rosy red splotches on his cheeks from crying, the rest of his skin snowy pale and translucent. So he was crying as he was singing, then.

 

“How long have you been here?” Harry asks, voice weak but accusing. He looks frightened, embarrassed, and all-around distraught. He’s barefoot but wearing bubblegum-pink pajama shorts with the strings tied in a loopy bow, and a Rolling Stones shirt which looks like it’s about ready to fall to a pile of thread it’s been worn so many times. It’s a bit of a juxtaposition, but isn’t that just Harry? There are splotches of forest green paint marring his hands and a particularly bright shade of deep red in a streak down his thigh.

 

“Not long,” Louis rushes to assure, standing up so abruptly he knocks his knee on the table, causing a bit of tea to slosh out of the mug. Hastily, he wipes it up with a napkin before it can stain the table. He can pretend to not have heard anything, but then he’ll have a guilty conscience and he really doesn’t feel like lying to Harry, even though he looks so worried. “Just- I heard the last bit of your song. You have a lovely voice.”

 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight, wincing like he’s feeling physical pain at Louis’ admission. In a moment he whips around quickly, facing away from Louis, and covers his face in his hands. He sniffles, reaching towards the fridge and opening it wide. The glow of the fluorescent lights illuminates him in silhouette and Louis watches nervously as he pulls out a bottle of cherry wine.

 

“Harry…” Louis whispers, voice gentle. He watches, concerned, as his roommate grasps the bottle tight around its neck and retreats back to his room. The sound of the door shutting softly resonates through the otherwise silent flat.

 

So he’s going to lock himself away in his room again, to paint and cry and get drunk on cherry wine? Instead of facing his problems or at least telling his roommate what the fuck is going on? Fine, whatever. Louis will just use the newfound quiet as an opportunity to get his work done.

 

All the while he can’t stop thinking of Harry’s voice, deep and lovely. Singing,  _ this love’s killing me but I want it to _ .

 

He can’t shake that worried feeling from the pit of his gut either, even hours later, when Harry finally emerges from his room again.

 

Luckily he no longer looks like he has been crying, but his eyes are now glassy in a new way. As Harry stumbles towards the recycling bin and nearly misses tossing the empty bottle of wine inside, Louis realizes he’s drunk. Or tipsy, at the very least.

 

He grabs a water bottle from the fridge before disappearing back down the hall, bumping clumsily against the table on the way there.

 

Louis glares after him but doesn’t say a word about it.

 

So much for getting him to open up.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

By the time Louis is up the next morning, gathering his notes and textbooks into a bag, jamming them in, Harry is nowhere to be found.

 

After the first week of living together, Louis has learned that this is normal. He doesn’t worry; he knows when he returns to the apartment later, he’ll find Harry curled up and napping on the couch.

 

So he goes to his stupid freshman-level class full of underclassmen who care way too much. Even though he gets there five minutes early, he’s the last to arrive. Rolling his eyes like the jaded senior he is, Louis takes his usual seat in the very last row and doesn’t attempt to make conversation with anyone.

 

Class goes slowly and Louis doodles in his journal just to stay awake. Usually he enjoys his classes but this one is truly the exception, and it’s so early on a Monday morning for any good to come of it. Not that he stayed up late last night partying or anything—in fact, he went to bed at ten o’clock, which may be a new record of sorts.

 

The past few months, Louis hasn’t felt like doing much of anything. More often than not, now, he just wants to curl up underneath a mound of blankets and never move again. It’s probably depression or something. Really, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were clinically depressed. It’s bad, but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

Dating was fun until it nearly ruined his life, and stopped him from being hired by an employer ever again. When your psychotic ex sends your nudes to your manager, and your manager’s manager, and your manager’s manager’s manager, and even to the fucking CEO of the entire establishment, well. Word gets around.

 

Word also gets around when your psychotic ex posts said nudes all over social media for the entire student body of the university you attend to see you with a sparkly pink dildo halfway up your ass.

 

Louis sighs, annoyed, just now realizing the professor dismissed the class five minutes early and students are filing out of the rows of the lecture hall now, most of them already gone. He gathers his things with shaky hands, lost in his own mind. He isn’t ashamed of taking provocative pictures of himself. In fact, he isn’t ashamed of his sexuality at all. But sometimes it’s hard to not be embarrassed when strangers on campus look at him with those judging eyes and he just knows they saw this intimate part of himself that he never gave them permission to see in the first place.

 

_ I didn’t ask for this _  he wants to argue when he goes to parties and men try to grope his ass or slip a hand down the front of his pants.  _ I didn’t ask for this _  he wants to bite when he goes on a date and everything is lovely until he find himself with an unwanted tongue jammed down his throat and a guy whining about how Louis won’t put out like his reputation says he will.  _ I didn’t ask for this _  he wants to scream when strangers turn their noses up at him like he somehow deserves to be alienated because some jackass decided it would be good payback to post compromising pictures of him all over the Internet.

 

There’s something dehumanizing about having all of this shared about him without his consent. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes tight and shove all the ugly thoughts away, because they start nagging at him and telling him awful things. Like how the entire situation is his fault and he never should’ve sent the pictures in the first place. There’s nothing to do about it now but he can’t help but regret it.

 

There’s no doubt those pictures changed his life for the worse. He lost his job and the chance of finding work again in the distant future. He lost nearly all of his friends when he needed them most. And worst of all, he lost that part of himself that he wanted to keep private and sacred.

 

They always says “your body is a temple,” but they don’t really mean it, do they? If his body was a temple it would be meant for public viewing and worship. If his body was a temple no one would glare at him before they even knew him, because apparently he did something so despicable he resultantly isn’t worthy of common kindness. Meanwhile his ex gets off free, with not a single person eyeing him strangely. Occasionally he evens gets a clap on the back or a congratulatory head nod that means  _ congrats on bagging the slut, bro _ .

 

The day is long, full of classes and studying and group projects. By the time he returns home, it’s six thirty in the evening, and he’s about ready to jump off a cliff with how annoyed and exhausted he is.

 

Yet the irritation mostly melts away when he unlocks the door to the apartment, still out of breath from the three flights of stairs, and comes face to face with his roommate lying on his back on the living room floor, a big black labradoodle standing completely on top of him and smothering him in kisses.

 

“So I see you two are getting cozy,” Louis muses in the place of a greeting as he kicks of his shoes and drops his bag by the door.

 

Harry is giggling and actively trying to shove Clifford off of him. Louis watches him struggle for a moment more before finally having pity and pulling Clifford away. It’s strange to see his roommate so cheerful.

 

“I fell asleep,” Harry explains, wiping dog slobber off his face, when Louis raises his eyebrows in question. “And he attacked me.”

 

This is the most expressive Louis has seen Harry thus far. It makes something flutter in his chest that he can’t quite place, but it causes him to think that he must  _ really _  be starved of companionship if the simple sight of his dog mauling his cute roommate is enough to make his heart tremble. It’s the first time Harry is actually smiling and laughing in his presence. Louis decides to cherish the memory, doing his best to remember it.

 

“Why were you on the floor?”

 

Harry shrugs, standing up clumsily and fixing his shirt from where it had ridden up his tummy. Louis is watching him so closely he notices the hint of a rosy blush on his cheeks, and the way his eyes flit to his bare feet like he’s embarrassed. “It’s comfortable.”

 

Louis dramatically eyes the wood floor, his expression conveying joking skepticism. “I’ll have to take your word for it then.”

 

There isn’t anything else left to say so he heads to the bathroom for a shower. Figuring the warm water will do wonders for his tense muscles, he locks the door behind him—something he has never had to do before, since usually he would shower with his boyfriend, before everything went to hell—and strips out of his clothes. One of the cons to the apartment is that the water takes a long time to heat up, so he has no choice but to stare at his naked reflection in the mirror as the glass slowly becomes foggier and foggier.

 

His self-image is so fucked up, he truly has no idea who he is nowadays. He barely even recognizes his reflection. It’s all due to the dissonance between how Louis perceives himself and how others perceive him. And then there’s who he actually is, which is so elusive he fears he’ll never fully grasp the concept of his true self.

 

With an audible sigh he steps into the shower and closes the glass door behind himself. The warm water falling against his back immediately relaxes him, soothing his muscles until the tenseness in his shoulders dissipates and he closes his eyes, mind slowing down and turning blissfully empty. For now, he can ignore all the doubt and dissonance.

 

The lengthy shower isn’t the best for the water bill, but it does wonders for his peace of mind, so it might be almost worth it. By the time Louis emerges from the bathroom, wrapped up in a fluffy white towel, with steam billowing into the hallway from the open entryway, he feels  _ unbelievably _  relaxed. He’s been so tense all day, and all week, even. It feels heavenly to finally unwind.

 

Eventually the cold air of the rest of the flat catches up to him and he starts shivering, the warm afterglow from the shower diminishing. Quickly he dresses in pajama pants and his softest hoodie, no socks, before heading to the kitchen for a cup of tea. The last time he went to the store, he bought a package of decaffeinated raspberry pomegranate tea and he’s been dying to try it.

 

“Tea?” Louis asks when he passes by Harry, who is again curled up on the couch like he typically is. Mostly he asks to be polite, and because this is what roommates should do for each other—make each other cups of tea even when the distance between them is slightly tense with a million unspoken words and scenarios. Louis has no idea what the fuck is going on with Harry but as his roommate he feels slightly entitled to at least know where Harry fucks off to in the middle of the night, and why he came back crying with bruises all over his face this past weekend.

 

“Huh?” Harry asks, head jerking towards the sound of Louis’ voice. Clearly caught off-guard because this isn’t a normal occurrence for them.

 

“I’m making tea. Would you like some? It’s raspberry pomegranate.”

 

“Oh. Yes, please.”

 

When Louis returns to the couch with two mugs of tea in his hands he sits down right next to Harry even though there’s space to sit elsewhere so their thighs wouldn’t be touching. But Louis is still feeling lax from his shower so he doesn’t really over-think it.

 

“How was your day?” he asks, eyes flicking to the sketchbook in Harry’s hands.

 

Harry swallows, fiddling with the handle of his mug. God, the way his big hands engulf the cup… Louis blames the heat of his shower for liberating his mind enough to allow himself to travel down that specific thought trail, dangerous as is it, especially in such close proximity to Harry.

 

“Good.”

 

Louis sighs, giving up and resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. He stills beneath Louis’ obviously unexpected touch. It’s a sharp contrast to the way Louis has lived for years, always with a boyfriend who was never shocked at physical contact. But now he has Harry as a roommate. Harry who is so shy and reserved, he barely even carries a conversation. If Louis were more awake and less relaxed right now, he might consider the fact that maybe Harry just doesn’t like him and that’s why he’s so unresponsive.

 

However, at the moment Louis doesn’t really give a fuck. He had a long day and now all he wants to do is drink his raspberry pomegranate tea, cuddle up with a cute boy—Harry being the obvious choice—and maybe even watch some pretty nature shows on TV.

 

_ Who the fuck have I turned into? _  Louis asks himself, mind whirling. Harry smells good, like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. It’s distracting.

 

“Tell me what you did, then. I wanna hear about your day,” Louis tells him, sinking further into his side. He thinks Harry could use some physical contact as much as Louis can right now. There’s something so soothing about the feeling of a warm body against his own, like the constant and steady reminder that he isn’t alone even though he feels it so.

 

“Um, okay…”

 

Harry is sitting so rigid Louis wonders if he’s going to stand up and bolt, anything to get away from Louis and conversation and human contact in general. His fingers are fidgeting against the lip of his mug and Louis thinks that maybe they’re shaking a little bit too. Beautiful Harry and his long, thin fingers always trembling. What happened to him to make him so afraid?

 

Louis must not have enough faith in him because Harry doesn’t run away and he doesn’t pull back, either. He’s still and rigid as ever, but he doesn’t flee. He allows Louis to sink into his side, sharing body heat, and says, voice tentative and nervous, like it’s a question, “I had class today?”

 

Louis can work with this. “What class was it?”

 

“Portraits.”

 

“Oh, nice. What did you do today? Draw anything cool?”

 

“We had a model come in. She was really pretty.”

 

“Oh? Is it someone I know?”

 

“I don’t know. I can’t remember her name.”

 

“What did she look like?”

 

“Straight black hair to her shoulders and maybe like, brown eyes. She was short and her hands were really dainty. She had nice hips.”

 

Those seem like strange observations but Louis doesn’t question him. It’s probably an art thing. Who knows how Harry’s mind works? Louis hums in acknowledgment, closing his eyes. Harry is  _ so _  warm, like a human furnace and not in a humid, clammy way. He’s warm in a comfortable way, a comforting way. Louis can’t get enough of it.

 

“She fell asleep on the stool,” Harry muses, playing with the string of the tea bag in his mug. The raspberry pomegranate has turned the steaming water a pretty mauve color.

 

“Oh really?” Louis laughs, voice definitely way too quiet. They’re both nearly whispering but it feels right, like their voices are meant to be this hushed.

 

“Yeah, and of course she fell to the ground because there’s no back to the stool so there was nothing to catch her. And then she woke up with about ten people surrounding her, and everyone was about to help her up before they realized they probably shouldn’t touch the naked girl lying on the floor.”

 

Louis laughs a little, feeling like he’s moments away from falling asleep. Harry is just so  _ warm _  and  _ comfortable _  to be all snuggled up against. He would be perfect for cuddling if only he wasn’t so rigid. Louis can work on that. “Wait, she was naked?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Can I see your sketches?”

 

“Why, because she’s naked?”

 

“No, you oaf, I’m not a pervert. I meant I want to see your sketches because I haven’t seen any of your art yet and it sounds really cool.”

 

“I don’t know-“

 

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” Louis jokes, feeling loopy on sleep as he snuggles further into his shoulder. Does this count as bonding time? Is this making Harry feel more comfortable with their budding friendship? Will he eventually open up to Louis and tell him what happened? “Show me your sketches and I’ll show you my O-chem research.”

 

Harry doesn’t respond verbally but Louis feels him shuffling around for a moment before pulling out his sketchbook, the one he always carries around. He opens it to a very specific page and then shyly hands it to Louis like he’s afraid Louis is going to take one look before chucking it across the room in insult.

 

Louis grasps the soft binding of the worn sketchbook with careful, gentle hands as he observes the sketches on the page Harry is showing him. He sees the dark smudges and lines of charcoal, converging together to create three separate drawings. It’s nothing elaborate, but Louis finds himself so enamored by the simple sketches. Maybe he’s being dramatic, but there’s something really special about the way Harry has put charcoal to paper, creating three distinct images of the female form.

 

“These are really beautiful, Harry. I love the way you’ve drawn her ribcage,” Louis comments honestly, never thinking those words would ever come out of his mouth. Well, here he is, complimenting his shy roommate on the way he draws naked women’s rib cages, the bones peeking from beneath the skin in an unconventional pattern.

 

Harry coughs uncomfortably, mumbling a weak, “Thanks.”

 

“I’d love to see more of your art sometime. It doesn’t have to be now obviously, but if you ever feel like sharing I’m always willing to be your audience.”

 

“Thanks. Can I see your organic chemistry stuff now?”

 

“I was joking,” Louis replies, even as he’s standing up and crossing the room to reach his bag, pulling out his journal full of notes. He sits back down next to Harry, even closer this time, and hands him the journal, sneakily resting his head on Harry’s shoulder when Harry is distracted by the journal.

 

Harry flips through the pages curiously, running his fingers over the messy diagrams and occasionally reading some of the words or equations aloud. He doesn’t get bored as easily as Louis would expect anyone to, inspecting Louis’ notes with earnest attention. It’s so endearing Louis feels like he might melt into a puddle of goo. Harry is just too much. Too  _ genuine _ .

 

“We never talk much,” Louis muses quietly, eyes closed, as Harry traces his fingers over a benzene ring. Harry doesn’t say anything, so Louis keeps going. “I mean, I know we don’t really know each other, and we became roommates in an unconventional way, but. You can talk to me, you know? We can be friends.”

 

“What does that even entail?” Harry asks, voice far away. He sounds jaded and detached. Drifting.

 

“I don’t know. I just feel like you don’t like me.” Fuck. Why is he saying this out loud? He hasn’t even been drinking. It’s a deep-set insecurity, one he can’t shake. The fear that people don’t like him. He definitely doesn’t need to be manipulating Harry into talking to him. But Louis is being honest; he wants them to be friends.

 

“I do like you,” Harry whispers, sounding affronted. “Why do you think I don’t like you?”

 

“You avoid me. You won’t tell me anything.”

 

Harry remains silent. When Louis looks up at him he sees his eyes are closed.

 

“You won’t talk to me.” Louis wonders how far he can push him.

 

“What are we doing right now? I  _ do _  talk to you.” Harry still hasn’t opened his eyes. It’s like if he opens them he’ll remember the situation and lose all the confidence he needs in order to be able to speak to Louis.

 

“You don’t trust me,” Louis accuses, snuggling closer to Harry’s arm and enjoying the warmth radiating off of him.  _ My sun _ , he thinks absentmindedly.

 

“I’m intimidated by you.” By the way Harry stills rigidly after the words are out, he didn’t mean to say this. Louis understands very well that sometimes the words you didn’t mean to say sometimes slip out without thought or consent.

 

But Louis isn’t just going to let this conversation thread fall ignored or forgotten, like everything else they’ve ever talked about has. Like the night Louis held a crying Harry in his arms and whispered to him that everything would be okay. “You are? Why?”

 

“I don’t know. You’re… you.”

 

Louis tries his hardest not to be offended. He stares at the TV and the pretty nature scenery in a faltering attempt to calm down and stop the maelstrom of self-loathing from overtaking his mind. “What about me specifically?”

 

“I don’t- I don’t know.” It sounds a lot like he  _ does _  know, but he just doesn’t want to say it out loud.

 

There’s another moment of fluttering silence before it  _ hits _  Louis. Fuck, why didn’t he think of this before? Why didn’t he ever consider the fact that maybe Harry has heard more about Louis than Louis has heard about Harry?

 

“Is this about… Is this about the pictures?” Louis asks wearily. For a long, silent moment it feels as if the carpet has been swept right out from under Louis’ feet. Like everything is different than he originally perceived it to be. Now that it’s out in the open he has to know the answer to the silent question: are you on my side or  _ his _ ?

 

Louis shudders, fingers clenching before he releases them. He stretches his hands out to relieve the tension in his body. It doesn’t work.

 

“What pictures?”

 

Louis feels dizzy, everything spinning. This has happened a million times over; nowadays whenever he meets someone new it seems they already know him.  _ His reputation precedes him _ , they say. All of those people who have seen those god-awful pictures…

 

It’s so disorienting, when people know something so intimate about him before they even meet him. A lot of times people tell Louis he’s overreacting, “it’s no big deal,” “they’re just pictures.” But they have no idea what it’s like, to have something so personal, so  _ private _ , strewn about for anyone to stumble upon. All of it against his will.

 

“You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen them. Everyone has.” The way the words come out is so nonchalant, like he doesn’t even care. But on the inside he’s burning with hatred—not just hatred for his monster of an ex-boyfriend, but hatred for himself too. This deep, ugly loathing that curls at his gut, making him nauseous.  _ Stupid stupid stupid _ . He wants to sink into the floor, or maybe jump out the window and crash to the cement three stories below.

 

Louis may be panicking. Or at least, he may look very pale and worried. That must be the case, because in an instant he feels thin fingers wrapping around his wrist, holding him there. He meets Harry’s eyes and sees them staring back at him, dark and intense. Green, but darker in the dim evening light.

 

“I’ve heard about it,” Harry admits, not relenting. Louis has never seen him so serious before. So open. Harry seems like one of those people who is so quiet about everything until his morality is questioned, and then he becomes overcome with conviction. Louis thinks he sees some of this in Harry now. “I’ve heard about it but I never looked. I never saw them.”

 

Louis’ breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know why he’s acting this way now and why he’s been acting this way all night. He blames it on the steaming hot shower which relaxed him enough to spill his secrets, or at least be a bit pushier with Harry than usual. He’s been cuddling up to him all night even though they barely know each other. And now they’re having a discussion about intimate pictures of Louis which the entire university has seen. But not Harry. Or so he says.

 

The thing about Louis is that he’s never timid or apologetic. Except for now. His voice sounds smaller than usual. Quiet. “You haven’t? Even when people sent them to you?”

 

“Even when people sent them to me,” Harry confirms. He squeezes Louis’ wrist a little tighter and then releases the pressure but still keeps holding him.

 

Louis’ head is spinning. He can’t decipher if Harry is telling him the truth or just bullshitting him as a form of placation. Obviously his trust has been shattered enough, and now he’s always suspicious. But rightly so. It’s a defense mechanism.

 

“Why didn’t you look?”

 

“Because it’s fucked up,” Harry says, his voice steely and on the edge of harsh. “It isn’t right.”

 

“But I was the one who sent the pictures to him in the first place. It was my  _ fault _ .”

 

“You sent them to one person who you trusted not to share them with anyone else. What happened is definitely not your fault. Nobody deserves that shit.” The way Harry says it like he’s so certain about everything makes Louis ache. How can he be sure Louis wasn’t  _ asking _  for it?

 

“But there’s always a risk,” Louis argues, for the sake of being contrary. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation and he can’t believe his strange, shy roommate is comforting him over something that happened months ago. “There’s always a risk that they’re going to send them to every fucking person they know, and I took that risk. So it is my fault.”

 

“Louis. It wasn’t your fault.” The way he says his name makes Louis’ heart thud a little faster in his chest. So determined and resolute. “That shouldn’t have happened to you and it shouldn’t happen to anyone, no matter the circumstance. He had no right to share them, especially as revenge. So no, I didn’t look at the pictures everyone was sharing of you for months on end, because it’s an invasion of privacy and it isn’t  _ right _ .”

 

It’s the longest amount of time Harry has spoken in Louis’ presence. Louis’ mind is spinning with it.

 

He’s still insecure. “So you don’t think I’m horrible or disgusting? You don’t think I’m a slut?”

 

Harry stares at him for a long while, observing him and thinking. Part of Louis wants to know what’s going on in his mind but the rest of him is afraid to even ask. After a long while, Harry says very decisively but very quietly, “No, I don’t. And I’m sorry that anyone has ever called you any of those things before.”

 

In this exact moment, Louis feels the distinct urge to cry. To weep, actually. Sob all over the fucking place, fill the apartment with an ocean of tears. It’s melodramatic but he has never had anyone say anything like that to him before. No one has ever given him such a subtle reassurance and actually  _ meant _  it.

 

He sits up straight, determined not to cry, and observes the man sitting beside him on the couch.

 

Harry is tall, gangly, and pigeon-toed. His hair is unruly at best, a stray curl always falling in his face, tickling his eyelashes. His nose is abnormally large and so are his hands. Most days he has charcoal smudged on his face and paint marring his clothes, his appearance always rumpled in some way, but somehow he pulls it off. He does. There’s this distinct look to him that makes him seem so genuine. It may be his quietness. His shyness.

 

So here is Harry, assuring Louis he never looked at his nudes. Never looked at the pictures of Louis with a sparkly dildo halfway up his ass, one hand wrapped around his cock and teasing the tip. The pictures of Louis wearing baby blue lace panties, with his lips parted open in an immortalized moan. So incredibly embarrassing, he burns with the shame of it all. The intimate pictures that Louis sent to his boyfriend in confidence, and everything was fine until they broke up. That was when all hell broke loose and his life transformed from average to shitty in less than an hour.

 

No one has looked at Louis the same since, but here is his strange roommate sitting close to him on the couch and telling him it isn’t his fault that any of these bad things happened. It isn’t his fault, Harry seems so adamant to declare _. It wasn’t your fault, Louis. Not your fault. _

 

_ I never looked. _

 

_ Why? _

 

_ It isn’t right. _

 

“God, Harry,” Louis sighs. He feels sick and heavy but he’s not messed up enough to overlook the distinct sight of an angel sitting on his living room couch. “ _ God _ , Harry,” Louis repeats, slumping forward into his arms and letting Harry hug him tight.

 

It should be awkward but it isn’t. They’ve been roommates for barely more than a week and they never even talk to each other. But a few nights ago Harry came back to the apartment crying and Louis held him close on the couch until he fell asleep. They know nothing about each other but they’ve shared that intimate moment, and they’re sharing this one now.

 

Louis doesn’t mean to cry but he ends up doing it anyways. He hasn’t cried in months but he cries now, all over the front of Harry’s soft t-shirt. Harry wraps his arms around him tighter and rubs up and down his back in a way that feels distinctly reassuring, this presence of another human being beside him, just holding him. Just  _ being there _ .

 

Tonight is so weird but Louis thinks it’s okay, and Harry is telling him the same.  _ It’s okay _ , he whispers, over and over again, into the still air as Louis cries.  _ It’s okay. _

 

It’s okay to be vulnerable, is what he means.

 

Somehow he falls asleep like this, halfway on Harry’s lap, a hand pressing hard against his thigh and the other tangled in Harry’s shirt. Sobbing into the warm skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of floral laundry detergent mixed with strawberry body wash and raspberry pomegranate tea.

 

When they wake up the next morning, entangled on the couch, backs aching from the strange sleeping position, they awkwardly and decidedly don’t talk about it. Apparently not talking about it is becoming a  _ thing _  between them.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

The week flies by quickly. Not much changes, other than the fact that they fall asleep on the couch together more often.

Rather than waking up early in the morning, cramped together on the couch, Harry and Louis make a habit of catching themselves before falling deeply into slumber, and stumble to their respective bedrooms at one or two in the morning. They don’t talk much, and they never see each other during the day, but at night they always sit close together on the couch until they both fall asleep. It isn’t intentional. At first, at least.

 

Louis has never done anything like this before. In fact, he’s never been so subdued. But it seems that rooming with Harry has turned him into someone who never goes out anymore and always falls asleep on the couch as early as nine o’clock. He doesn’t mind it though. The dark purple circles beneath his eyes have been lightening up back to his normal skin tone and he looks a lot less tired now, after just a week of consistent sleep.

 

They don’t talk about their new sleeping habits either, just like they don’t talk about Harry’s bruises or Louis’ reputation. When Louis wakes up Harry is already gone and they don’t see each other again until dinner or later. Harry is still exceedingly shy and reserved but Louis doesn’t try to push him out of his shell. He enjoys their evening routine too much to try to upset it. For once the world is in balance and he’s frightened of anything that might send it spinning off kilter.

 

There is only one more incident that leaves a bad feeling in his gut. It occurs on Thursday night, three days after Louis cried into Harry’s jumper about the entire population upper Manhattan thinking Louis is a slut who will do anything. Louis is already asleep and in his own bed, curled up around his spare pillow in place of a human body he has become so accustomed to sleeping next to over the years of constantly having a boyfriend, when it happens.

 

He’s jostled awake by a strange sound he can’t quite place. At first he thinks it was the heat coming in through the air vents or maybe even a neighbor causing a ruckus. But then he hears it again, a strange sound that vaguely represents a scream. It’s enough to make goosebumps rise on his skin, a chill running up his spine.

 

Lying in bed for a moment longer, trying to discern the sound, he finally figures out what it is. Or at least where it’s coming from.

 

Harry’s room, of course.

 

In a deep midnight haze, Louis vaguely thinks a murderer might’ve broken into their flat and is now massacring Harry with a machete or something equally as brutal. As a last-second decision he grabs his old baseball bat from his closet and slowly creeps out into the hallway, ready to pummel any stranger he may see on the way to Harry’s room. It would be funny if it wasn’t so scary.

 

When he gets to Harry’s room, just a few yards down the hall, he sees the door is slightly open. More proof that there’s a murderer in their apartment, since Harry never leaves the door open. He doesn’t have time to think much of the door, though, because he’s much more concerned by the strangled screaming sound coming from inside. Tentatively, Louis pushes the door with the bat until it’s wide enough for him to slide inside.

 

He’s expecting a shadowy figure standing over Harry’s bed with a big knife raised above his head, glistening with blood. He’s also expecting to die. Louis raises the bat, ready to defend himself, and Harry too if it isn’t too late to save him.

 

What he  _ isn’t _  expecting is the only person in the room to be Harry. He also isn’t expecting for Harry to be thrashing around on his bed, tangled up in his sheets. Screaming, crying, and whimpering. No murderer or Grim Reaper. Just, alone.

 

“Oh,” Louis breathes, lowering the bat. His eyes are wide and trying to focus in the darkness. He feels around the wall for a while but can’t find the light switch so instead he gives up and approaches the bed, all of his movements covered by the veil of darkness. “Harry?”

 

There’s no response aside from a long, low moan of pain or fear or something of the like. Louis doesn’t understand what’s going on but he knows he needs to help his roommate who is in obvious distress. He steps over a canvas and drops the bat on the floor before inching closer to the bed.

 

“Harry?” Louis tries again, louder this time. There’s no response again and he smacks himself on the forehead with how stupid he is. Harry is having a  _ nightmare _ . Just like Liam described.

 

The recognition of the situation isn’t enough to guide Louis as to what to do next. Labeling it as such definitely does not make it easier to deal with. But he figures that possibly the first step would be to wake him.

 

Deciding to dive in and just deal with one issue at a time, Louis grabs Harry’s shoulders from where he’s thrashing and stills them, using quite a bit of force to keep him there. In the darkness Louis can see his eyes squeeze shut, like he’s in pain, and his lips are trembling with unsounded whimpers. Louis gives him a good shake, saying, quite worriedly, “Wake up Harry. It’s just a bad dream, wake up.”

 

It takes a long while. Shaking him doesn’t work very well and Louis feels bad about doing it since Harry is clearly very distressed and the last thing he needs is someone shaking him. But Louis doesn’t know another way to wake him up so he just goes with it.

 

Harry’s conscious state appears quite similarly to his nightmare state so it takes a bit of time before Louis realizes that Harry is actually awake now. He’s hysterical though, crying, screaming, thrashing.

 

“Wha- What?”

 

Louis breathes out a sigh of relief at the sound of Harry’s voice, finally conveying his lucidity. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. It was just a nightmare. It’s okay.”

 

Harry crumples in response, cowering forward and collapsing around himself. Knees tugged to his chest, hands covering his face as he breathes heavily into his palms. He pulls them away for a second and Louis can see messy tears glistening in the faded moonlight. He doesn’t know what to do so he hovers beside the mattress and waits.

 

“Fuck,” Harry cusses after a long while of panting into his hands. He groans, hastily wiping at his eyes. “Fuck.”

 

Finally Louis sees the lamp beside the bed, so he reaches over to turn it on. With a small click, the room is illuminated by warm but dim lighting, painting shadows over Harry’s shaking silhouette.

 

There are demons in the room. Louis can’t see them but he knows they’re there. The air feels dark and heavy, so much so that it’s frightening, sending a chill up his spine. He doesn’t like the sight of his roommate crumpled around himself, in trembling hysterics, whimpering but trying to keep himself together.

Very tentatively Louis reaches out and wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrists, slowly pulling them away from his face. He does everything slowly so if Harry can stop him if he wants to. Once he can see Harry’s face, he starts wiping the tears away with the pads of his thumbs. He doesn’t know exactly what to do but he hopes Harry finds it comforting that Louis is gently caressing his face.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though he has no idea if it’s truly okay or not. The depth of Harry’s mind is not only unchartered but also unfathomable. Certainly he can never even begin to imagine the horrors Harry must’ve dreamed up in order to react so intensely. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

 

Harry doesn’t react even when Louis shifts closer and pulls Harry’s body into him, hugging him close to his chest. The boy goes willingly, letting Louis move him like a marionette until he’s half on Louis’ lap and half on the bed. He’s still trembling and crying even as he sinks into Louis’ hold and buries his face in his chest. Louis strokes his back in a way he hopes is comforting, and tries to realistically consider the situation they’re in.

 

Louis has known for a while now that something is wrong. Harry is so tentative about everything in a way that suggests more than shyness. Even the most introverted don’t act the way Harry does, not just afraid to speak and interact, but also afraid to  _ exist _ . He flinches at loud sounds more than the average person and sometimes he gets in this state where a switch is flipped and his face turns impassive and emotionless, like he’s drifting somewhere far away that isn’t in this realm. He has nightmares and according to Liam they’re a common occurrence.

 

The other concerning factor is Harry’s home life. His family. Louis has yet to even vaguely mention the topic because he’s so afraid of what will happen if he does. But if what Liam said is true, and Harry’s parents really didn’t love him like the should’ve… Louis doesn’t know what he’ll do. But it would explain a lot.

 

Then there’s the night Harry came home and Louis was introduced to this strange, frightening world where some people actually faced true evil and sometimes they didn’t win. Louis has no idea what could’ve happened to cause Harry’s injuries, but every possible situation makes his stomach churn with anxiety. In fact, any possibility makes him feel nauseously sick.

 

What the fuck is he supposed to do? He has no plan of action, no next steps to solve the problem. His roommate he barely knows is crumpled and crying in his arms and all he can do is stroke his back and lie that everything will be okay. He’s burning with the need to help Harry but he doesn’t know how.

At the very least, Louis knows, Harry could use a friend. Someone who doesn’t ask questions but holds him regardless, reassures him and maybe even slowly builds up his confidence until he’s stable again. Louis isn’t stupid enough to think that he can fix someone’s broken pieces, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

 

He barely knows Harry, but he’s spent enough nights falling asleep beside him on the couch to have been awarded a certain type of intimacy that makes his heart ache. There’s something so familiar about the way Harry crumbles. Every underlying tragedy pulls the strings of their hearts closer together and Louis would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a certain attraction to Harry. Most of it is definitely just the need to protect something small, damaged, and helpless. Harry isn’t any of those things but at times like this, when he’s curled into Louis’ chest and sobbing about a scary dream, he seems like he is.

 

_ Fuck is right _ , Louis thinks gloomily as he hooks his grasp around Harry’s thighs to tug him more fully onto his lap. This position gives him better leverage for hugging so that’s what he does, enveloping Harry in his arms like he’s trying to protect him from the world.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers after a long while, apparently calmed down enough to speak and be embarrassed. He starts to pull away but Louis encourages him to stay, carding his nails down Harry’s back like his mum always did when he was younger. Harry visibly shivers in reaction and falls pliant again, sinking deeper into Louis’ hold.

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re fine. It’s fine.”

 

Harry shakes his head quickly and pulls away again. This time Louis lets him even though he doesn’t want to, especially with the way Harry scrambles back against the wall and starts crying again.

 

“Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . I’m so- ugghhh.” He drags his hand down his face and scrubs at it harshly like he’s punishing himself. He mumbles the rest of it and it sounds a lot like  _ messed up. I’m so messed up. _

 

Louis won’t have any of that so he taps his roommate on the knee until he finally looks up. “Hey now, don’t say that. You’re not messed up.”

 

So this is why Harry is always sleeping during the daytime, then. He has nightmares a lot which probably keep him up half the night, and Louis doesn’t blame him for always being so exhausted. It makes sense in a messed up way.

 

Louis looks back at Harry and from the way he’s covering his face with his hands it’s quite obvious he’s mortified. Louis doesn’t want him to be ashamed but he can’t think of anything to say to ease the embarrassment. He thinks maybe he should be more honest and upfront because how will they move forward if they don’t communicate?

 

“It’s okay. You’re fine.” Louis wants to say  _ I’m not bothered, just worried _ , but that doesn’t seem very reassuring. “My sister gets nightmares sometimes.” It’s a lie, but it feels important to let Harry know he isn’t strange or  _ messed up _  like he says he is. Maybe dishonesty isn’t morally correct, but Louis will be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest to make Harry feel better.

 

“She does?”

 

“Yeah,” Louis lies again, cringing internally. He knows he should be truthful with Harry but he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s aware that many people have bad dreams and nightmares but he doesn’t know anyone in real life, so in order to make his point he has to lie. “We um- We always do something to take her mind off of it.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Do you want to get out of here? Like out of the apartment, I mean. There’s somewhere that always makes me feel better when I’m upset.”

 

Harry glances at the clock on the table beside the bed, and Louis follows his gaze.  _ 2:17 _ , it reads in glowing green lights.

 

“Is it even open now?”

 

Louis smiles, already forming a bit of a plan. He feels bad for lying but it’s worth it if he can help get Harry out of his head for a while. “Yeah, it’s open twenty-four hours. We can go in our pajamas. But dress warm, okay? It’s a bit of a walk and it’s cold outside. I don’t want you to freeze.”

 

“O- okay,” Harry stutters. He sits up a little straighter but Louis can still see the puffiness and redness of his face from all that crying. He sniffles, squeezing his eyes shut as a few new tears splash on his rosy cheeks. Louis resists the urge to wipe them away, knowing that even though the boundaries may seem a bit blurred right now, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

 

“Meet me at the door in five?”

 

Harry nods and Louis smiles reassuringly one last time before leaving Harry’s room. He has to walk down the dark hallway to his own room where he struggles to find the light switch for a moment. Once dressed in warmer clothes, he joins Harry at the door to the apartment.

 

Even through the obvious remnants of his breakdown, and the way he’s wearing mismatched clothes not meant for the public eye, Harry is gorgeous. At least Louis thinks so, with the way his dark eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and his skin glows in the dim light. His hair is a mess but endearing in an effortless way and Louis just wants to run his fingers through it, cuddling close to Harry and taking all the hurt away.

 

He wants to wrap Harry in his arms and never let go. He wants to keep Harry safe from everything awful and dangerous in the world. He wants to protect him from all the misery and make sure he never suffers.

 

These are strong desires to have. Louis should be frightened because he only ever feels this way with his mum and his siblings—his family. Yet he isn’t really startled by any of it due to the fact that he recognizes Harry as someone virtuous yet vulnerable, like an angel.

 

He looks like an angel, too. Even right now, when he’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a thick jumper the color of olives beneath a heavy winter coat unlike the black overcoat he usually wears to class. He hasn’t bothered to fix his hair, either, and it sticks up in random places making him look absurdly cute. Above it all, his skin is glowing in a way that only happens after he cries for a while, and his eyes may be slightly bloodshot but they’re still startlingly piercing, breathtaking.

 

Louis has to tear his eyes away, mentally scolding himself for feeling breathless in Harry’s presence. There’s no reason for him to feel that way. He takes his mind off of it by looking away and focusing his attention on getting them to their destination.

 

The best thing about living in Manhattan is there’s a place for everything. Any shop he could ever need, only a short walking distance away. Most big cities are like that, but New York is on a different level.

 

Upon entering the bookstore, Louis turns to gauge Harry’s reaction even though he already vowed not to look at him anymore. He sees eyes wide, and lips parted in a quiet gasp at the sight. It’s three stories of the most obscure books in the city, quaint despite its size. A twenty-four hour bookstore that never closes is its own kind of heaven, in a way. During the day the place is bustling with people, but in the middle of the night it’s much quieter and only a few lone people wander the aisles or sit on the floor reading.

 

Louis likes it best now because it feels sort of magical under the guise of the night. They wander through the enormous store wordlessly and Louis knows Harry is in awe.

 

When they pass the science fiction section on the second floor they see two girls kissing against the shelf of books whose authors’ surnames begin with the letter M. Their hands are all over each other but it’s sweet rather than crude and it warms Louis’ heart to see the way they hold each other like it means everything to them.

 

A couple aisles letter a middle-aged man is sitting at a table in the back, pouring through a stack of law books with a determined look on his face. For two o’clock in the morning he seems abnormally productive but Louis supposes some people work best at night.

 

Beside the poetry section a boy is sitting with his back to the shelf, a tattered journal open on his lap and a pen in his hands. Harry stops here, but far enough away from the boy so they don’t disturb him. He turns to Louis, tugging on his arm and getting him to stop too.

 

“This place is amazing,” he whispers, voice awe-struck and hushed in a successful effort to keep the ambiance intact. Because he’s speaking so quietly, he has to lean towards Louis in order for his voice to be heard. “I hadn’t even known it existed.”

 

Louis smiles, feeling smug at the way Harry is so in awe. “It’s one of my favorite places.”

 

“Really?” Harry looks skeptical.

 

“What?”

 

“You just- You don’t seem like… I don’t know.”

 

Louis squints at him before placing his hands on his hips. “Just because the entirety of the world knows me for the naked pictures I so mistakenly sent to my boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy reading a goddamn book, Harold.”

 

Harry’s eyes widen and he backs up a step, bumping into a table of best-sellers. The sound resonates through the otherwise quiet store and he cringes at the disruption he just caused.

 

Louis laughs a little at the blatant display of clumsiness but he adds a smile to show he isn’t mad or even annoyed. He feels bad when he sees how nervous Harry looks, like he thinks Louis is actually mad at him, “Just teasing, H. I get what you’re saying and the answer is yes, really. This is one of my favorite places. And I’m surprised you’ve never been here before, Mr. Art Student Indie Hipster.”

 

Harry ignores his gentle ribbing in favor of responding shakily, “I usually just go to Butler.”

 

Butler is Columbia’s library, which also happens to be one of the most inclusive research libraries in the entire world. It’s absolutely gorgeous and has approximately two million books in the central stacks. It’s amazing.

 

But there’s something different about the bookstore they’re in right now. Something special about it. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s a store and not a library. But no, it’s more than that. It’s the atmosphere and the ambiance and the magic behind it all. It’s the type of people who come here in the middle of the night, not just students like at Butler, but girls who kiss in the science fiction section, and adults who teach themselves law for the sake of justice, and kids who write poetry in tattered journals, and roommates who wander the aisles to take their minds off nightmares.

 

He tells Harry all of this and Harry agrees, as they amble through the poetry section. After that, they got lost in the quietness for a while, picking up books that seem interesting to them and occasionally sharing them with each other. It feels as though time has stopped just for now and they’re in their own little bubble. A sanctuary that keeps them tucked away and safe from the rest of the world. They find refuge between the pages of the books, between the lines of the pages, between the words of the lines, between the letters of the words…

 

They end up purchasing a stack of books to share. On the walk home Louis leans his head on Harry’s shoulder. Usually he’s cranky being woken from sleep but right now he just feels tired and cuddly. It may or may not have something to do with the way Harry’s presence calms him to no end.

 

They’re almost back home and Louis is already dreaming of slipping into Harry’s bed and curling around him, hugging him tight and never letting go. Falling asleep that way to keep the nightmares away. Harry is quiet and sweet and warm, always warm. Louis doesn’t know him very much at all but there’s something about him that shines so bright, something about him that feels so safe. He wants to smother himself in it.

 

This is progress, right? Louis comforted Harry from the terror of his nightmare and then stole him away to an enchanted bookstore. They had actual discussions about books and poetry and that has to bring them closer together, doesn’t it?

 

Can they be considered friends now? Do they know enough about each other to be more than just acquaintances made roommates? Louis isn’t certain but he hopes the answer is yes. The weight of which he likes Harry presses down on him harder and harder every day.

 

Louis wants to help Harry and he knows he’s motivated by more than just a possible savior complex. He wants to help Harry because Harry deserves comfort and happiness. He should never feel afraid. He should never wake in the middle of the night from nightmares that wrack his conscience with fear. He should never come back home with his face battered and bruised. He should never crumble and curl in on himself like he wishes he didn’t exist.

 

Louis wants to help Harry but he doesn’t know how. Right now he assumes the best option is to just be a really good friend to Harry, get close to him so he feels comfortable speaking about whatever it is that’s troubling him so. And maybe then Louis can find comfort in Harry too.

 

Maybe he already has.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

The next day they don’t talk about it, which comes as no surprise. But Harry looks at Louis differently.

 

It’s difficult to explain. Louis is lazing about on the couch, though he’s all dressed up in skinny jeans and an expensive streetwear hoodie. Clifford is lying on top of him, nose nuzzled into Louis’ neck, sleeping soundly. He’s going out with his friends tonight but he got ready a bit early, so he decided to pass the time by sending his friends snapchats of himself cuddling with his dog.

 

At one point he looks over towards where Harry is sitting on the armchair, typing away on his laptop. He’s working on an essay analyzing one of his own art pieces for a class but he refuses to let Louis know even what type of media it is, if it’s a painting or drawing or even a photograph.

 

But when Louis looks over at him he sees Harry has stopped typing and is staring at Louis instead. There’s this weird little smile on his face, and Harry hardly ever smiles unless he’s forcing it, but this isn’t a forced smile. It’s a real one, Louis can tell, because his dimple is right there and Louis feels like melting because why is Harry looking at him like that?

 

So he asks, “What?”

 

Harry shakes his head and looks away, eyes fluttering back to the screen of his laptop. He bites his lip to keep back the smile but he doesn’t resume his typing.

 

Louis sits up, deracinating Clifford. There’s a faint blush on Harry’s face and Louis won’t let himself imagine why. “Seriously, what?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Suspicious, Louis eyes him for a while before deciding his roommate is just being weird and harmless. He checks his phone for the time and sees he should be leaving within the next few minutes in order to arrive ten minutes late which is exactly on time in his opinion. When he looks back at Harry an idea strikes him.

 

“You should come with me.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I’m meeting up with Niall, Liam, and Zayn. You should come.”

 

“Uhh, pass.”

 

Louis gives him a weird look, not really understand what’s going on in Harry’s mind. Then again, he never really understands him. “Why? They’re your friends too, you know.”

 

“I have to finish this, though.”

 

“Harryyyy,” Louis whines, exasperated and fairly certain he’s just making excuses to get out of going out. “It isn’t due until Monday.”

 

Harry rubs at his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, very obviously annoyed. He gives in so easily, it’s comical. “Fine.”

 

Louis cheers obnoxiously in victory, but beyond the facade of joking triumph he feels secretly very pleased with himself. He wouldn’t be pushing for Harry to go out with them if he didn’t think it was a good idea. It’s important to get Harry out of the apartment every once in a while and Louis feels a lot better knowing he’ll be able to watch over Harry tonight too, just to make sure he’s safe and having fun.

 

Right. So the thing is Louis is afraid to have a repeat of the night Harry came home crying and covered in bruises. It’s only been a week since then but Louis feels increasingly protective of Harry, because he’s realized exactly how much he needs someone to keep him safe. Louis doesn’t like seeing his roommate hurt or upset, and when he thinks about what happened he feels this brotherly urge to protect him, just like he protects his younger siblings.

 

Harry gets ready quickly, because they have to leave in a few minutes if they don’t want the others to yell at them for being late. They meet up at the front door to walk to the bar together, and by then Harry is wearing black jeans and a sheer black blouse with red and pink flowers decorating the front. Louis has never seen him wear something like this, since they’re always at home together wearing comfy clothes, so it’s a bit of a surprise. Louis hadn’t known Harry had it in him to wear something so out-there and daring, with the way the blouse is basically diaphanous. Especially for someone so timid and shy, it’s strange to see this different side of him.

 

Harry slides on his boots and then they head out together in relative silence. Luckily, the city is noisy as always so there’s no pressure to have a real conversation. They’ve become slightly closer since the night they spent at the bookstore, but Louis still feels like he’s awkwardly dancing around the elephant in the room whenever he even looks at his roommate.

 

There’s just… He has never been in a situation like this before. He has never had to deal with someone else’s bruises, tears, or nightmares. He feels out of his depth, out of his supposedly vast realm of experience and knowledge which he used to think was quite vast, but now knows isn’t much at all. He has no idea what to do. It’s unsettling.

 

Meeting up with his friends at a bar, however,  _ is  _ indeed something in his vast realm of experience and knowledge. In fact, it’s something he used to do all the time. Immediately upon entering the bar he feels calmer, despite it’s chaotic atmosphere. He may not know how to act around his strange roommate, but he  _ does  _ know how to act in a bar.

 

They find the three of them sitting at a booth, obviously not waiting for Harry and Louis to arrive to begin drinking if the half-consumed beers and already empty glasses littering the table are any indication. Once they get their drinks, they sit down at the table, Louis next to Zayn and Harry left to decide which side to sit on. Liam spares him the decision and pulls him to his side, throwing his arm around Harry’s shoulder and cuddling him into his side. Harry remains cataleptically still for a moment before finally relaxing. It’s a small detail, easily overlooked; Louis only notices because he’s watching so closely.

 

It doesn’t feel strange at all for the five of them to hang out together, even though they’ve never been in this exact group before. Louis is great friends with Liam, and close with Niall too, but he’s never really interacted much with Zayn. They know each other of course, they’re aware of each other, and they’ve had a conversation or two but never much.

 

And then, of course, there’s Harry. Not for the first, Louis wonders how he hasn’t met Harry until now. _  I mean, he lived at Liam’s place for a few weeks _ , Louis reasons with himself.  _ How could I not have met him?  _ Though with the way Harry is so shy, so careful about meeting new people, he supposes it makes sense. Whenever he leaves the apartment, it’s to go to the art building, and that’s a place Louis has never even considered spending any time in. In fact, he isn’t exactly sure he knows where it is. There’s absolutely no reason for a chemistry major to go to the art wing.

 

But maybe Harry is his reason. Maybe Harry is his motivation to branch out and open his mind a bit. Now that he thinks about it, he wouldn’t mind it so much.

 

“Tommo, why aren’t you drinking?” Niall asks as he’s kicking back another beer. The kid can drink like a sailor, but Louis is pretty sure he’s never seen him drunk. He holds his alcohol well, as a result of his consecutive nights out in addition to his Irish heritage. Louis thinks he could drink anyone under the table without showing any signs of faltering. It’s impressive, and a useful talent at times.

 

“I am drinking,” Louis argues petulantly, hand tightening around his glass. He used to be a big partier but lately he just isn’t into it. He can’t think of a good reason why to drink as much anymore. There’s no fun in it when he knows he’ll be up half the night, drunk and alone with his ugly thoughts, unless he really wants to give into his reputation and find someone to take home just to silence it all. “I’m just not in the mood to get wasted, is all.”

 

From across the table, Harry eyes him curiously in between sips of his own drink. While Louis feels more like abstaining tonight, it seems Harry is keen on getting drunk.

 

“Designated driver,” Liam adds to the conversation, using his free hand to point at Louis.

 

“None of us drove here, idiot.”

 

“It’s a symbolic title.”

 

Louis huffs a laugh as the conversation turns into a discussion over sports, complete with lighthearted raillery. He doesn’t mind being the one to stay coherent and make sure everyone gets home safely at the end of the night, especially considering all the times in the past when Niall and Liam have done the same for him.

 

So they all drink until they’re sufficiently wasted, except Louis who nurses a drink or two but mostly just enjoys laughing at the others’ stupidity. At some point during the night, Liam won’t shut up about how much he wants to dance, so they abandon their table in favor of going across the street to one of Liam’s favorite clubs.

 

They join the edge of the crowd, not willing to venture farther in where it smells too heavily like sex and sweat and the temperature is probably ten degrees hotter. Forming a little circle, they dance stupidly to the beat of the music, making each other laugh.

 

It’s a nice change that none of them seem keen on looking to pull, so they stick together without the greater purpose of seducing strangers to take home. It’s more fun and more enjoyable this way, to know they’ll stick together until the end of the night and can just be silly with each other.

 

After a long while, they sort of split up. Niall goes to look for more alcohol while Liam and Zayn fuck off to god knows where, doing god knows what. Probably each other. Harry wants to keep dancing, but he keeps bumping into the people behind him, making them glare in annoyance.

 

Louis obliges him, but tugs him forward with a grip on his flailing forearms so he’s out of range of the people around them, no longer about to accidentally punch anyone in the face.

 

Of the two weeks Louis has known him, he has never seen Harry like this—so carefree, beaming happily and not paying any mind to anything except for how good it feels to dance to the music and completely let go.

 

Of course, he’s drunk. So it isn’t the real him, but maybe it’s a part of him that he keeps hidden deep down, buried beneath insecurity and reticence. He likes Harry now, giggling drunkenly and mostly making a fool of himself but in a good way. He looks gorgeous like this, glowing with sweat beneath the flashing lights, a stray curl falling forward onto his forehead, bare skin shimmery underneath the sheer black fabric of his eccentric blouse. It makes Louis ache to think that in some other universe, he is this happy, buoyant, and untroubled all the time, instead of just when he has had too many strawberry daiquiris.

 

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Harry whines childishly, tripping on his own feet and stumbling forward.

 

Louis steadies him with a hand on his arm, surprised at how warm Harry feels compared to his own cold fingers. “I am dancing,” he asserts with a laugh, though it’s pretty much a lie. Mostly he’s just bouncing a little on his feet to the beat and cackling at Harry’s stupidity. It’s such a contrast to who he usually is, it’s entertaining to witness.

 

Harry frowns at him before throwing his head back and whining again, “No you’re nottttt.” He flings his arm out and it ends up wrapped around Louis’ neck, to which he tugs him closer until he’s clinging to Louis and resting most of his weight on him. “Dance with me for reeeeeeal.”

 

He snuggles his face into his neck, panting heavily and leaving humid breath ghosting over Louis’ skin, sending chills down his spine at the carnal sensation. It feels like brushing hands with a complete stranger or kissing your best friend—too intimate.

 

Louis hooks his hands beneath Harry’s armpits in a failing attempt to pry him off. Harry just clings on tighter, squeezing Louis uncomfortably to his chest and trying to make them sway to the beat. He tries not to think about how embarrassed Harry will be tomorrow, if he remembers any of this. With the amount of drinks he’s had tonight, full recollection in the morning seems doubtful.

 

When Louis isn’t paying attention, more focused on keeping them from tipping over and collapsing to the ground, Harry clumsily flips himself over so his back is pressed to Louis’ front. Louis stills in shock, still clutching Harry’s sides to keep him upright.

 

“Dance with me,” he repeats, again and again, manually sliding Louis hands down from his upper ribcage to his hips.

 

Louis immediately backs away in shock but Harry follows him, trying his best to keep them pressed together. He lifts a hand from where it was engulfing Louis’ on his hip and points towards the crowd where a bunch of couples are grinding on each other. “Dance with me like that,” he beseeches, lulling his head back to rest it on Louis’ shoulder.

 

“No, Harry, let- Let go,” He says in slightly hysteric, anxious frustration, trying to pull his hands free and return to a safe distance away from him. Harry’s grip finally slips and he breaks free, separating their bodies decisively.

 

Harry wobbles drunkenly, pouting at the loss of contact. “Why not?”

 

Louis shakes his head, not dignifying his question with a response. He wants Harry to go back to dancing happily without begging for anything on the verge of being sexual. He doesn’t want the space between them to be nonexistent. He doesn’t want to cross the boundaries he knows they’ll both regret having crossed in the morning. He doesn’t want the desire thrumming within his bones to have a reason to rise to the surface. He doesn’t want to give in. Desperately he wishes for the others to return and save him from this unbearably awkward situation. He prays Harry won’t remember this in the morning.

 

Reprieve thankfully comes when Niall returns, followed by the other two. They dance a while more, but it’s apparent that everyone is either exhausted or too out of it to continue on. At the end of the night, Louis walks everyone back to their doors. Niall is lucid enough to go off on his own, but Louis makes sure Liam and Zayn are settled in their respective apartments before tugging Harry the rest of the way home.

 

Drunk Harry is quite the menace, and Louis has been dealing with him all night. He would be annoyed if he wasn’t so endeared. Harry clings to him the entire walk home, making “jokes” that don’t make sense at all, and trying to talk to random strangers who are walking down the sidewalk as Louis apologizes on Harry’s behalf.

 

Finally back at their apartment, Louis guides Harry onto a kitchen chair and encourages him to drink an entire glass of water. Harry doesn’t want to drink it, so he frowns and pouts like a child before playing silly games by blowing bubbles into the glass and then proceeding to spill the rest of it down the front of his shirt, giggling until he feels the coldness on his skin and immediately looks as if he’s about to cry.

 

By then he’s on the brink of tears, shivering and begging Louis to hug him to warm him up. Louis says he isn’t doing anything until Harry drinks another glass of water, since he spilled most of the first one. He drinks it slowly but dutifully with a childish grimace and opens his eyes wide, impatient, as soon as he finishes.

 

“Nope,” Louis states very clearly, like he’s talking to a little kid with limited intellect. “I’m not going near you until you change into dry clothes.” He’s hoping by the time Harry puts his pajamas on, he’ll have forgotten all about wanting Louis’ cuddles.

 

No such luck. Harry starts sobbing loudly from his bedroom after having left the kitchen to change his clothes. Now he’s crying for Louis’ help. Louis moves quickly in case something is actually wrong, feeling worry seep into his veins even though he’s probably fine. When he enters Harry’s room he notices some of the canvases are uncovered, but he’s too distracted to look at Harry’s art. Besides, it would be shitty of him to take advantage of his roommate’s inebriated state.

 

Harry is wearing a pair of skimpy pajama shorts and is in the process of putting on a jumper. The jumper, however, is tangled around his arms and caught on his head. He cries, the whimpering sound muffled by the fabric, too drunk and uncoordinated to get himself unstuck.

 

Louis has to bite his lip to keep his smile back. He crosses the room towards his drunk, distressed roommate who would be so embarrassed to know he was acting like this. With attentive hands he untangles Harry from the jumper and pulls it down properly, situating it so it lies correctly on his shoulders. The material is short though, and it only reaches down to the bottom of his rib cage. When Louis steps back he realizes it’s a cropped sweater that isn’t meant to cover his tummy.

 

Harry throws his arms around Louis’ neck and hugs him tightly in gratitude, saying “Thank you!” over and over again until the words become extremely extraneous. When Louis finally pries him off again, Harry leans across the bed and grabs the socks he had discarded there earlier. He attempts to pull them over his feet but fails miserably, lacking the coordination he needs to put them on.

 

“Help me,” he begs, shoving the socks into Louis’ hands.

 

Louis sighs but obliges, just to placate him. He grabs Harry’s ankle and pulls his leg over to his lap, sliding the sock onto his bare foot, then grabbing his other ankle and doing the other. They’re cream-colored, knitted, knee-high, and have little silk bows on the top, but Louis keeps the socks bunched down because Harry probably meant to grab a normal pair of socks, and chose these in his intoxication.

 

Louis was wrong. Harry bats his hands away and pulls them up to his thighs before clambering off the bed and stumbling into a standing position like Bambi taking his first steps.

 

He raises his eyebrows at Harry’s eccentric choice of clothing. He looks ridiculous like this, wearing a crop-top jumper, revealing shorts that barely cover his ass, and thigh-high socks with little silk bows on the tops. Like some sort of strange, mismatched, intoxicated seductress. So used to seeing his roommate wear jeans and band t-shirts, or ugly sweaters from thrift shops, he feels like sometime during the night he accidentally entered a portal to an alternate universe.

 

“I did what you said,” Harry states matter-of-factly, approaching the bed where Louis is sitting. He trips over his discarded jeans on the floor and nearly faceplants onto the mattress, but somehow manages to right himself just before he crashes. “Can we cuddle now?”

 

Louis shakes his head, not sure how to get out of this situation. He stands up and helps Harry into bed, maneuvering him so his head is somewhere near the pillow. Tugging the blanket over his curled-up roommate, he tucks the sheets up to his chin before pulling away. “You should get some sleep, H. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.” The last part is added more as a formality than anything. Exhaustion has hit him and all he wants to do now is sleep until morning.

 

Harry stares up at him cooperatively with his big, docile green eyes. He looks gorgeous as always, but vulnerable. Open. Willing.

 

Louis pats Harry’s head in appeasement like he would a dog, purposefully ignoring the way Harry keens up into the touch and closes his eyes happily like a kitten. He feels remorse leaving like that, but his own bed is calling him, so he drops his hand and begins walking towards the door.

 

On his way there, Harry says something that Louis doesn’t quite catch. It sounds like, “He hurts me.”

 

Louis knows he shouldn’t ask, should just keep walking, because this is probably about to open a whole new can of worms. Still, a confused “Huh?” slips out of his mouth before the rational part of his brain can catch up.

 

“Daddy hurts me,” Harry enunciates, sitting up on his elbows and staring at Louis very seriously.

 

Hand on the doorknob, Louis closes his eyes for a long second and lets a flood of anxiety wash over him like the waves of the ocean. When he opens them again, he sees Harry is still gazing at him, looking an impossible mix of somber and innocent. The vulnerability is still there and it makes Louis sick with worry.

 

Louis drums his fingertips on the wood of the door. Chews on his bottom lip. Doesn’t know what to say.

 

Harry stares at him for another weary, drawn-out moment. Then he lowers himself back down so he’s lying on the mattress again, drags the sheets up to cover himself, and cuddles the extra pillow to his chest.

 

Louis leaves the room feeling like he missed a big opportunity to say something important, but still not knowing what it is he should’ve said.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Saturday mornings used to be a specific phenomenon Louis never really experienced. Partying late every Friday night meant he usually slept well into the following afternoon. Now, with his new relaxed habits, he’s finally experiencing the true beauty of a gentle, peaceful Saturday morning.

 

He’s sitting on the armchair with a cup of earl grey tea warming his hands. He’s back in a fresh pair of pajamas, his hair still wet from his shower after his run with Clifford. Clifford is sleeping soundly on his lap, satisfied from the morning’s sufficient exercise.

 

Everything is great. He has all weekend to study for his exams and analyze some of the data he recently acquired from his research at the lab. He should probably have a decent amount of time to himself, too, to do what he wants. Right. So everything is great, except… Except he can’t stop thinking about what Harry said last night.

 

_ He hurts me. _

 

_ Daddy hurts me. _

 

Louis manages to forget it every so often, but every few minutes the words find their way back into his mind and he cringes uncomfortably, feeling shivery and worried. The thing is, it’s not very hard to understand. Louis is just desperately searching for any alternative that isn’t as horrible as the glaringly obvious translation of Harry’s words.

 

Petting Clifford nervously, he squints at the TV and tries to distract himself with the news. It doesn’t work. He ends up wondering if Harry is talking about his actual dad, or a boyfriend he calls Daddy. Either one is plausible. Either one is disturbing. The point is that someone is hurting Harry. Present tense, not past tense.

 

It makes sense. What did Louis think, anyways? This isn’t a shock. Obviously someone is hurting him. Louis had just blithely, ignorantly hoped it was a one-time thing.

 

Harry stumbles out into the kitchen around ten o’clock, very obviously hungover. His hair is a rumpled mess and his eyes are tired. He’s wearing everything from last night except the socks. Louis wonders what he thought when he woke up and saw what his drunk self wanted to wear. He carelessly digs through the cupboard, searching for painkillers and not finding them right away.

 

By now Louis is exceedingly nervous, stomach twisted in knots. He displaces Clifford, rearranging him on the chair, and tentatively enters the kitchen. As soon as his bare feet step onto the hardwood floor of the kitchen, Harry tenses, spine straightening and muscles tightening. Harry looks back at him briefly before continuing to rummage through the medicine cupboard.

 

Louis taps his shoulder in passing to get his attention, saying, “Bottom shelf.” Harry flinches but recovers quickly, finding the bottle of pills at Louis’ directions and popping three in his mouth. The recommended dosage is two. He swallows them down with a swig of water, hands shaking.

 

“Alright?” Louis asks softly, setting the kettle on the stove. He braces his fingers against the counter and keeps his back to Harry, finding himself unable to face him.

 

“Yeah, fine. Thanks.”

 

“Mhm,” Louis hums, wondering how to bring up what Harry said last night. Now obviously isn’t the time. So when, then?

 

Harry sits down at the kitchen table with his water bottle in his hands. Louis can’t see him but he can imagine it, with the sound of the chair scraping against the floor. He can imagine him staring blankly at the table top, wringing the bottle through his hands in heavy contemplation.

 

“Did I…” he starts, hesitating, voice deep and raspy from sleep. Louis waits patiently for him to continue but still cannot find the strength within him to turn around to face his roommate. “Did I do something last night?”

 

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, feigning cluelessness. He knows what Harry means. He knows what Harry is worried about.

 

“Umm, I don’t usually drink a lot, so like… I dunno. If I like, said something, or did something, or. I dunno.”

 

Now is the time to bring it up. Now is the time to talk about it.

 

But Louis is a coward.

 

“No, everything was fine. Is fine. Last night was fun, do you remember going to the club? We danced a lot and acted like idiots. Then we got everyone home safe and pretty much just crashed.”

 

Louis finally turns, in time to watch Harry’s shoulders relax. He looks significantly less tense, though it’s quite obvious he has a headache. Louis has pity on him, and fills a cup of tea before setting it down in front of him.

 

“What do you want for breakfast?”

 

Harry wraps his hands around the mug, presumably to warm them. He’s still shaking and it probably isn’t from the cold. Louis tries not to pay attention to the way his hands completely encapsulate the mug, but, well, he doesn’t have that much self control. Harry has really nice hands. “I can get it, it’s fine. Thanks.”

 

“No, let me- Um, I can make… I can make toast? Eggs?” Louis rummages around the kitchen looking for things that don’t include meat, vaguely remembering Harry saying something about being a- what was it he said? Vegetarian? Vegan? He throws a few pieces of toast in the toaster-oven before opening the fridge up, hoping there are eggs. There are.

 

“Thanks,” Harry mutters. He pushes his mug away from his face to rest his head on his folded arms on the table.

 

Louis cooks and Harry sits, both of them in relative silence. At one point, Clifford wanders into the kitchen, sniffing the air and searching for treats. Harry scratches behind his ears and coos at him quietly, calling him  _ beautiful boy _  in a quiet baby voice reserved especially for Clifford.

 

“You’re not having breakfast?” Harry asks after Louis sets his plate down in front of him and starts cleaning up the kitchen.

 

“Nah, already ate.”

 

“Oh. I thought- You didn’t have to do this, Lou.”

 

_ Lou _ . Louis’ eyes widen, trying not to overreact. He angles his face away from Harry while he recollects himself, letting out a shaky “It’s fine,” in response. It seems Harry’s general shyness is overridden by his gratitude.

 

Louis leaves the kitchen before either of them can say anything else, but on his way he passes the blanket they keep on the couch and decides to bring it back to Harry. He can’t stand to see his bare legs in the cold kitchen any longer. He plops the blanket on Harry’s lap before retreating back to the couch, Clifford following him all the while. Behind him, Harry squawks out another thanks, and when Louis looks back he’s lying the blanket over his lap.

 

They spend the day quietly. Louis works while Harry disappears in his room to either sleep off his hangover or work on his art. They don’t reconvene until the evening when Harry emerges again to make an Italian dinner. Louis decides he likes living with Harry because he gets real meals he never got before when he lived with any of his various boyfriends. None of them could cook, and neither can Louis, so it was always takeout or cereal for dinner. And that’s fine for a little while, but he’s quite sick of that now. Harry being here and cooking real meals reminds him a bit of home.

 

Speaking of home, he misses his family. He hasn’t been home in a long while, since before he broke up with his last boyfriend and everything went to hell. He had an internship in Dallas last summer, and between that and school he never found the time to make it home. He  _ has  _ called his mum a few times since then, and talked with his sisters on the phone as well, but certainly not enough.

 

He decides to call his mum right now, since the current time complies with the time zone difference. She picks up on the second ring and greets him animatedly. They catch up for a little while before she asks what’s wrong.

 

“Does something always have to be wrong for me to call?” he asks, laughing a little, although the deeper truth makes him uncomfortable. He needs to call home more often.

 

“The past few times you called haven’t been too good,” she points out, very motherly.

 

Louis sighs, laughing weakly. She’s right. The past few months haven’t been his favorite, and he’s definitely been sadder ever since the bad thing happened, destroying his reputation and causing him to lose his job. He hadn’t thought his mum noticed, but in retrospect of course she did.

 

“Yeah, well, everything’s okay right now. I’m just calling ‘cause I miss you guys.”

 

“I’m glad, dear. We miss you too. Come home soon, yeah? We always want you here.”

 

Four years ago when Louis was deciding where to attend college, he applied to a ton of schools in the U.S. because he had kind of wanted to get away, broaden his scope of the world and all that. Obviously he knew it would separate him from his family and he wouldn’t always be able to come home. But now that he really doesn’t have the money to fly home whenever he wants, he feels kind of trapped. He doesn’t regret coming to New York, but sometimes he wonders how his life would be if he never came here in the first place.

 

His mum asks about what’s new with him and somehow it slips out that he has a new roommate. His mum inquires curiously about what he’s like and wonders out loud if she’ll ever get to meet him. Louis tells her about Harry’s art and his shyness and how he’s really nice and understanding even if he seems a bit aloof at first. He wants to tell her about the bruises and the night Louis held him in his arms, soothing away his tears, but it feels too intimate and personal to even mention it. He wants to tell her about what Harry said last night but he doesn’t even know where to begin. So he talks about how they watch  _ Planet Earth _  with Clifford on the couch, and how he lived with Liam, and how he sings when he doesn’t know Louis is home. How beautiful his voice is. How much Louis wants to get to know him, wants to know more about him. Wants to know everything.

 

Louis doesn’t mean to spend the remaining half hour of their phone call talking about Harry, but. It happens.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


He doesn’t expect Harry to go out again that very night.

 

He does, though, and Louis finds himself staring without meaning to, when Harry bends over and a small slip of lavender lace peaks out above the waistline of his jeans. Lingerie. Louis’ mind spins with the extraneous information that  _ Harry is wearing lace panties right now beneath his clothes… _

 

When he straightens up after slipping on his Chelsea boots, Louis looks away quickly and pretends to have been watching the TV. He fiddles with his phone, suddenly nervous. The last time Harry went out, he came back sobbing and battered with bruises.

 

_ He hurts me. _

 

Louis sighs, leaning back into the couch. He can’t get the thought of Harry wearing lace out of his traitorous mind. “Going out?” He asks, even though it’s none of his business and anyway the answer is obviously yes.

 

Harry turns around and eyes him warily. “Yeah. Don’t wait up for me.”

 

“Got it,” he mutters in response, trying to return his attention to the textbook on his lap. The words blur into one another and he finds he can’t comprehend a single sentence.

 

Neither one of them says anything else as Harry leaves, locking the door behind him. Louis closes his textbook and groans loudly into the now otherwise empty flat.

 

He gets so little work done, it’s pathetic. He ends up watching  _ Pitch Perfect 2 _  while disregarding his textbook completely, and then fucks around on his phone, sending Liam memes from 2010 until he feels too exhausted to even keep his eyes open. Only then does he crawl into bed and turn out the light, falling asleep almost immediately.

 

Five hours later, Harry returns. From the comfort of Louis’ own bed, he can hear Harry stumbling through the apartment. He can hear him crying.

 

Sitting up, belly filling with nerves, he stares at the wall until he’s gained enough courage to leave his bed. Then he slips on a pair of sweats, because greeting a crying Harry while only wearing boxers would not be a fun experience. He tiptoes out of the room and tries to figure out how to approach the situation.

 

Harry is standing in the hallway with his back turned to him, hands covering his eyes and crying loudly. He looks significantly more disheveled than when he left, his shirt inside-out and his hair a mess. Sex hair. He has sex hair, Louis realizes with a start.

 

Louis decides to pretend he was just getting up to go to the bathroom. Harry turns around before he can plan and memorize any lines to play his part.

 

Harry doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The tears and the bruises speak for themselves.

 

Stupidly, Louis asks, “Are you alright?”

 

Obviously the answer is no. Harry gives him one long look before running his hand through his rumpled hair, tugging on the hem of his shirt, and disappearing inside his bedroom. Slamming the door shut hard.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


On Sunday they don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about it on Monday, either, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, and on and on and on.

 

It’s an awful habit, this “not talking” thing they have going on. Louis hates it. He desperately wants to pester Harry about it, but instead he just presses his lips tightly together and keeps his nose confined to his own business. If Harry wants to talk, he’ll talk.

 

Harry doesn’t talk.

 

The injuries fade with time and Harry is sickeningly good at covering them up with makeup every time he leaves the flat. He doesn’t even try to hide the wounds from Louis, but he sure as hell hides them from everyone else.

 

_ He hurts me _ , Harry had confessed drunkenly. Somber voice, innocent eyes. _  Daddy hurts me. _

 

Louis feels sick just thinking about it. Now he’s pretty sure it’s a boyfriend. Probably the ex-boyfriend Liam had mentioned, the one who was exceedingly controlling and always acted like an asshole to Harry. It would make a lot of sense.

 

Although, Liam had also mentioned Harry had a bad home life, and his parents “didn’t love him like they should’ve.” Louis shudders to think about what exactly that could entail.

 

Abuse seems most likely. He can’t fathom the extent, and isn’t comfortable making any guesses.

 

Louis doesn’t know much about abuse survivors, but he thinks Harry might be showing sufficient symptoms.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Harry has another nightmare the following Wednesday night.

 

It’s unexpected. Louis hasn’t thought much about the first one; he thought it was a one time thing. Of course he’s wrong.

 

He wakes up to the sound of Harry’s whimpering cries. Disoriented by darkness and fear, he stumbles out of bed and somehow manages to blunder into Harry’s room, flipping the lights on this time. The brightness is just as disorienting; it burns his eyes.

 

The experience from last time hardly helps him at all—he’s still completely unsure of what to do. Harry is still asleep though, moaning in seeming agony. Louis squeezes his shoulders and shakes him gently until he wakes.

 

“Fuck!” Harry cries out, sounding pained and frightened. He backs himself up against the wall, trembling with fear like a startled animal.

 

“It’s okay,” Louis soothes, keeping his distance so he doesn’t scare him any further. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re fine, you’re-”

 

“Fuck,” Harry groans, louder this time, effectively shutting Louis up from his babbling. He curls in on himself, still shaking like a dog. Eyes squeezed shut, he sobs wildly, panicking,

 

The brightness of the overhead light makes the room appear surgical and bleak. Louis wants to turn the ceiling light off in favor of the nightstand lamp but he’ll have to make do for now. He sits down on the bed, far enough away so that it isn’t seen as a threatening gesture, and waits for Harry to calm down. He wants to comfort him but he doesn’t know how.

 

He keeps crying. Louis is worried. It’s worse than last time.

 

He shifts forward slowly, making sure Harry can see his movement and isn’t startled by it. Eventually he moves up enough so that he can put a hand on his knee, gentle and hopefully reassuring. His hand remains there, unmoving, as Louis shifts a little closer, hoping the new proximity will assuage his fears. He wonders if Harry is one of those people who prefer to be held when they cry, rather than to be given space and distance. There’s no way to know without trying.

 

Louis pulls Harry closer so he’s almost sitting on Louis’ lap. With a hand on his upper back, right between his shoulder blades, muscles rigid and tense, Louis can feel how physically strong Harry is despite his fear. It’s strange to think someone so big and strong is so emotionally weak and frightened.

 

In fact, it makes Louis feel sick and distraught. There’s a type of person in the world who is soft yet strong, warm yet calm, and protective yet freeing. Harry is exactly that type of person, when he’s not in hysterics that is. But when he’s like this, so broken down and admittedly pathetic, it’s heart-wrenching.

 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Louis tells him carefully with support and encouragement. He can’t help himself when he leans forward to rest his cheek on the top of Harry’s head. He also can’t help himself when he nuzzles his nose into Harry’s hair, breathing him in. It’s a weird detail to notice at a time like this, but Harry smells really, really good. Like vanilla perfume mixed with flowery laundry detergent.

 

He keeps whimpering pitifully and Louis keeps whispering to him comfortingly. At least he hopes it’s comforting. Not for the first time, Louis wonders how in the hell he ended up sitting with his hysteric roommate in his arms in the middle of the night. For god’s sake, Harry is crying over something that isn’t even real.

 

The truth is that whatever frightening dream he had may not represent real life, but it’s real to Harry, or at least it felt real to him, and isn’t that what matters? It isn’t about reality at all; it’s about  _ perceived  _ reality.

 

He cuddles Harry into his side, thinking,  _ what the fuck am I doing? And why aren’t we talking about this? _

 

Eventually he gets him to stop crying. It’s a grueling process. Louis can tell when Harry’s almost over his freak-out because he starts getting embarrassed, shying away from Louis’ touch. He continues to hold him close, stroking his back comfortingly. Rubbing circles to massage the tension from his muscles.

 

“Let’s go somewhere, yeah? Let’s go somewhere to take your mind off of it.”

 

Harry doesn’t put up much of a fight. After last time, it seems, he trusts Louis more. Trust is good.

 

They remain in their pajamas, but Louis manages to dress Harry in a warmer jumper because it’s freezing outside. He helps him pull it on, helping his arms through and straightening out the hem before giving him a gentle smile. Harry is perfectly capable of taking care of himself but that doesn’t mean Louis doesn’t want to help, even if he doesn’t  _ need  _ to.

 

They walk through the city just like they did the night they first visited the bookstore together, quiet and close together to share warmth. Louis wants to grab Harry’s hand to hold it tightly in support, but he doesn’t want to freak him out so instead he shoves his fists into the pockets of his trousers to keep his hands warm even in the cold night air.

 

“Roller skating?”

 

“Mhm,” Louis confirms, smiling softly and guiding Harry inside. The place is empty aside from a group of girls giggling sillilily, which makes sense seeing as it’s the middle of the night.

 

There’s only worker, as far as Louis can tell, and he accepts their money and hands over their skates, pointing them over to the benches to switch their shoes. Louis sits down, resting his back against before kicking his shoes off and tying up his own skates.

 

Harry struggles with getting his on, so after a moment of laughing at him, Louis gets down on his knees in front of him and ties the laces for him. When he looks up, he catches Harry blushing and avoiding his eyes.

 

He looks so beautiful like this, is the thing. Sleepy and disheveled, still distraught and upset from the content of his nightmares. His eyes are dark green and duller than they ought to be, but still so beautifully piercing, they stir something deep in Louis’ gut. Louis may not know him very well, but he’s been around him enough to know that Harry is a beautiful person, inside and out. He’s sweet and shy and deeply traumatized.

 

Has he always been sweet and shy, or is it the trauma that makes him so? If it’s the former, the universe is a cruel place which punishes those deserving of only the best things. If it’s the latter, then there’s beauty to come of pain, and good in everything.

 

As it turns out, neither one of them knows how to skate. Louis is just as clumsy on skates as Harry is on his own two feet, and Harry on skates is just another entity entirely. They hold onto the wall of lockers for support, pushing themselves out onto the rink. It’s only a moment before they cling to each other instead, trying their hardest not to fall down and laughing all the while.

 

So it’s not the most conventional activity to do in the middle of the night. It’s also not the best idea since they’re so bad at skating. But it would be a lie to say it’s not fun.

 

They make one full oval while clinging onto the railing and onto each other while singing the lyrics to the nineties music playing when they’re not busy crashing down to the ground. After they go around once, they gain a bit of confidence and decide to try going around without holding onto the railing. Louis holds Harry’s wrists in his hands and gently pulls him along, very slowly skating backwards.

 

“We’re doing it,” Harry states, breathless and in awe, eyes wide, cheeks pink. He looks carefree and happy, his expression bright and excited, and Louis feels this warmth in his chest to think that he caused that.

 

“We are,” Louis agrees, laughing and pulling Harry along, so relieved to see him smiling after he was so afraid tonight.

 

Not knowing what Harry’s nightmares are about is something that nags at Louis, his curiosity gnawing away at him. He always wants to ask, but he never wants to so carelessly wipe the smile right off his face, so he ends up never asking. It’s probably for the best. He would never intentionally recall those images in Harry’s mind, the memories and nightmares that make his eyes go distant, mind far away, body rigid and fearful.

 

There is something evil in this world that makes Harry curl in on himself, collapsing into nothing but shivery bones and sallow skin, dark eyes fearful. For instance: his life is ruled by nightmares and flashbacks and that far off look in his eyes when Louis can tell his mind is somewhere else entirely. For instance: Louis wonders if he’s reliving the trauma of his past or if he’s in some far off paradise, floating through the limbo of dissociation. He doesn’t know which is worse.

 

The roller rink is dark aside from the glow of the few rainbow colored lights in the center of the rink. It has an odd smell like smoke and burnt popcorn, from the fog machine and the concessions stand in the back room. The only other patrons, four girls probably in their late teens, are racing each other around the rink, looking like professionals which ultimately makes Harry and Louis look more than inadequate as they cling to each other, trying not to fall to the floor.

 

“H, we’re so pathetic,” Louis says, laughing when they bump into the wall and hang onto the railing to right themselves. When they push themselves out into the center of the rink again, holding hands for support, they’re moving so slowly there’s no doubt they look ridiculous.

 

It doesn’t matter though, because they’re both laughing so hard their stomachs are hurting and their eyes are tearing up. Louis gasps for breath and laughs some more, finally calming down enough to grin at Harry.

 

Harry smiles back at him, attempting to move them a little faster. But then, before either of them has time to process it, he slips, cursing loudly, “Oh fuck!” before windmilling his arms in a futile effort to remain balanced and then crashing to the ground. Louis loses his balance too, and goes down flailing.

 

Harry lands on his butt and Louis lands on top of him, accidentally kneeing him in the groin which causes him to groan outwardly in pain and then flop back onto the floor dramatically, breathing heavily, face scrunched up in pain.

 

“Shit, sorry,” Louis apologizes, wincing in sympathy and still trying to contain his laughter by directing it into his palm.

 

“Fuck, that hurt,” Harry laughs, grimacing and softly rubbing his crotch with his hand. He sits up slowly, propping himself up on his palms, and Louis finds himself face to face with his roommate, very close. Sharing breaths. He can’t help but notice that Harry smells like mint toothpaste and fruity body wash, something tropical. Mango, maybe. And then there’s the undercurrent of vanilla, that always-there smell.

 

“You okay?”

 

“You almost killed my dick, but ‘m fine,” Harry laughs, his eyes bright and shining like he’s holding back tears. Louis wonders if it’s from the pain of getting kneed in the crotch, or from something else entirely.

 

Harry looks beautiful like this though. He’s always beautiful, but now even more than usual, with his glowing face and his shining green eyes big, wide, and innocent—no longer dull like they were only moments earlier. The transformation is startling. His hair is a messy disarray from sleep and from the wind outside, but somehow still gorgeously framing his face in chocolate curls.

 

Not for the first time, Louis finds himself staring down at Harry’s lips, which are pink and chapped from how he always either bites them or pinches them with his fingers. Not for the first time, Louis wants to see if they’re really as soft and warm as they look. Not for the first time, Louis wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

 

He doesn’t, though. They’re so close, they’re sharing breath, but the moment is broken when the girls speed around again and laugh at the sight of them crumpled together on the floor. Louis jokingly tells them to fuck off, leaning back to give Harry space and helping him up by offering him his hands. They struggle to stand up together.

 

“Little Harry okay?” Louis asks jokingly, nodding to Harry’s crotch, once they’re both up and back to sliding with uncertainty on their skates, teetering awkwardly without any grace or ease of balance.

 

Harry laughs too, wincing in remembrance but patting his dick jokingly. “All good, I think.”

 

“Sorry again.”

 

“You’re fine.”

 

They try skating again, and this time it comes slightly easier. They actually manage to make around a few times without falling too much. It’s fun and entertaining and Louis is proud of himself for thinking of an activity that actually has Harry smiling brightly, laughing unbridledly.

 

“You hungry?” Louis asks after a while of them skating like champs.

 

“It’s three in the morning, Lou.”

 

_ Lou _  again. He tries his hardest not to melt at the nickname. Why does it sound so good coming from Harry’s mouth?

 

“Perfect time for hot chocolate, then,” Louis concludes, turning around carefully and trying hard to skate towards the other end of the rink where there’s an entryway to the concessions. He wiggles his butt a little to get moving, having this weird feeling where he hopes Harry is watching. He doesn’t know what to make of this thought, so he pushes it away.

 

It would be stupid of him to refuse to admit that Harry is attractive. Truthfully, Harry is one of the prettiest humans Louis has ever met. He definitely deserves the recognition for it.

 

And he’s kind, too. That’s the thing. That’s what really gets Louis. Harry may be extremely shy and closed off, but they’ve been spending so much time together and Louis is working hard to get him out of his shell. There are glimmers of Harry’s inner personality, and that’s when it’s apparent how great of a person he truly is. Louis wants to see that side of Harry all the time. So he’s trying.

 

The floor is uneven where the rink ends and the back room begins, and Louis stumbles over it, nearly braining himself on the doorframe. Harry comes up behind him, most likely intending to help him and keep him from falling, but he isn’t able to stop in time, and he crashes into him from behind, sending him flying right into the countertop, screaming.

 

The worker behind the counter is laughing, but trying to cover it up with a hand over her mouth. Louis glares at her jokingly as Harry scoots over to them, apologizing profusely, eyes worried.

 

Louis orders two hot chocolates before turning to Harry and assuring him it’s okay. He doesn’t expect to see Harry shaking in fear, but that’s what he’s faced with when he looks at him.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks quietly, suddenly concerned.

 

“I’m really really sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t be mad…”

 

Louis stares at him for a moment. Then he cups his face with one hand and kisses him on the cheek, just barely stopping himself from lingering there. He can’t help it. It’s an innate reaction. “It’s fine, Harry. I promise I’m not mad.” He decidedly doesn’t think about why Harry would be so worried of Louis getting mad at him for making an honest, harmless mistake. He decidedly doesn’t think about anyone in the past who may have yelled at him or even hurt him for messing up.

 

Harry looks a little speechless and a little unconvinced. Insecure and worried.

 

The worker behind the counter hands them their hot chocolates with a tired but cordial smile. Louis pays for them and Harry protests only a little.

 

“When you’re a famous artist and filthy rich you can pay for my food,” Louis reasons, twisting his fingers into the back of Harry’s jumper and using the leverage to tug him back to a booth.

 

“Unlikely,” Harry mutters, sipping his hot chocolate after sitting down.

 

Louis scoffs jokingly. They’re kind of back to normal after the prior incident but Louis is still paying apt attention because he’s afraid they’re not in the clear quite yet. “Don’t even say that. You’re so talented, Harry.”

 

Harry blushes, cheeks reddened.

 

Louis finds it adorable. He decides to tell Harry. “You’re adorable.”

 

“Stoppp,” Harry whines, covering his cheeks with his hands.

 

Louis grins at him. “See? Adorable.”

 

“Oh my god,” Harry groans, embarrassed, folding his arms in front of him and burying his face in them. Louis pats his head teasingly, surprised at how soft his hair is, before tangling his fingers in the strands and carding through his hair, mesmerized. Harry seems to like it, so he doesn’t stop for a while.

 

“You sleepy?”

 

“A little.”

 

“We should get you home. You have class early tomorrow, right?”

 

“Yeah. So do you.”

 

That’s true, but Louis is more concerned about Harry’s sleep than he is his own. They take their time with their hot chocolate, enjoying it together before they have to leave. Then they return their skates and head out into the city, walking back much closer this time. Louis thinks he’s done well, getting Harry to open up to him. Obviously there’s still so much work to do, but he can tell they’re really building up trust.

 

It’s a nice feeling, one he hasn’t felt in a long time.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“You guys seem a lot closer.”

 

“We are,” Louis agrees, warming his hands up on his mug of tea. They’re out for their weekly meet-up at Liam’s favorite coffee shop on campus. “I think he trusts me more now.”  _ He’s a sweetheart, _  Louis doesn’t say.

 

“That’s good. Have you, uh, figured out if he’s okay?”

 

“I dunno yet.” He doesn’t really feel like talking to Liam about Harry’s stability because it kind of feels too personal, like he’s breaking a promise to Harry by telling someone else or something. “We haven’t really talked about it, but he went out again. I think he’s seeing his ex.”

 

Liam squints with uncertainty. “That doesn’t make any sense, though. Why would he go back to him? He was an asshole.”

 

“Well, I don’t know. Who else would he be seeing? He said it was his boyfriend.”

 

“Yeah, so maybe he met someone knew.”

 

“I don’t think so. Anyways, what am I supposed to do? It’s his decision.”

 

Liam frowns. “Yeah, but, Harry is… Harry.”

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

“I just think he needs someone looking out for him, is all.”

 

“I am looking after him,” Louis argues, indignant. He thinks about cuddling Harry on the couch, stroking his hair, and rubbing his back. Comforting him after his nightmares too. Making sure he always has enough to eat, making sure he always gets enough sleep.

 

“Right. Are you going to his show?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“His art show. Next Friday, at the gallery?”

 

Louis stops up short. “He never said anything about it to me. I didn’t even know.”

 

“Huh. Maybe he forgot.”

 

“Maybe.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“Have a good day?”

 

“Mhm,” Harry mumbles, licking the lemon yellow frosting off the spoon. It’s more obscene than it should be. His eyes, wide and bright today, are too innocent. The fact that he’s having these thoughts about someone so demure and virtuous makes Louis feel depraved.

 

He has to look away before he really goes crazy. “That’s good. What’d you do, besides bake cookies?”

 

“Finished one of my projects.”

 

“Nice.” Louis hops up on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth. A few minutes ago he came home to his roommate singing Queen and mixing yellow food coloring in a bowl of frosting, wearing only a jumper and shorts despite the fact that it’s almost winter and the apartment is freezing. The sight of his bare feet on the cold wood floor of the kitchen makes Louis cringe in phantom coldness. “So I was talking to Liam today, he said you have an art show on Friday?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Do you wanna come?”

 

Louis eyes him warily. “Do you want me to go?” He asks, feeling a little more insecure than he should. He knows they aren’t exactly friends, but still. Why hadn’t Harry brought it up sooner?

 

“Yeah, I do. I mean, only if you want to.”

 

“I get to see your art, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“And you’ll be there?”

 

Harry laughs a little, his smile so bright it’s refreshing. He’s in a good mood today. “Yeah, I will.”

 

“Alright, then I’ll go.”

 

When Louis looks at Harry again, he catches him grinning at the floor.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Waking up to the sound of someone screaming and crying is disorienting, to say the least.

 

It’s a bit frightening to think that Louis is almost used to this. Almost expects it, in a way.

 

He crawls out of bed like he’s been doing every few nights for the past couple of weeks. When he gets to Harry’s room, he turns on the bedside lamp and sits down on the mattress beside Harry who is curled up and sobbing into his knees, already awake.

 

It’s easier when he’s already awake, but worse in a way, because even though Louis doesn’t have to shake him to consciousness, he knows that when Harry first opened his eyes, he was blindingly alone.

 

“You’re okay Harry, it’s okay. Shh… I’ve got you, love… It’s okay, you’re safe here,” he whispers, holding Harry in a comforting hug and rubbing gentle circles onto his back. Harry’s fingers tangle in the front of his t-shirt, clinging tightly as he buries his face in Louis’ chest, sobbing wildly.

 

Louis lets him cry until he calms down, whispering encouraging platitudes until his sobs turn into sniffles. It takes a while, but Louis is quite familiar with the process now, so he doesn’t worry too much. Not like the night he first comforted Harry, at least.

 

“Wanna do something fun, H? Or do you wanna stay here?”

 

Since the time when they went roller skating, Harry has had three nightmares. Two of the three times, they stayed in the apartment, watching movies on Harry’s laptop in his bed. The other time, they went out to Insomnia Cookies instead of ordering in and ate until they both felt like they were going to explode.

 

“I dunno,” Harry whispers into Louis’ shirt, still clutching it tightly between his fingers like he’s afraid to let go. Louis doesn’t mind at all. As long as Harry feels comforted, he’ll let it happen. At this point he’s willing to do anything to calm him down. It’s scary and reckless, how strongly he feels this way.

Louis leans back, taking Harry with him, to read the clock on the nightstand. It says 4:37 in bright green numbers. It’s Friday, the morning of the art show in which some of Harry’s pieces, among pieces of his peers, will be shown off at the campus gallery. Louis sighs, wishing Harry could get some solid, uninterrupted sleep for once in his life. Today is a big day for him.

 

“Hmm,” he hums quietly, setting his hand again on Harry’s back and lazily scratching his fingers back and forth, dragging his nails along the fabric of his t-shirt. “We could go for a walk? And take Clifford with us, maybe.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Alright, kiddo,” Louis says, patting his back avuncularly. “Dress warm.”

 

They meet at the front door a few minutes later, both dressed in sweats and their winter coats. November in New York is nice, but cold. Especially so early in the morning, before the sun has shown any signs of rising.

 

They take Clifford out and end up running with him for a little bit down the sidewalk. It feels nice, though, to have the wind rushing past them. They run for a few blocks through the city darkness until they get tired and slow to a more casual walking pace. Clifford pants happily beside them, oblivious of Harry’s turmoil.

 

“Mind if I smoke?” Louis asks after a long while of silence. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t had a cigarette in front of Harry yet, but he wonders if it’s something that really bothers him.

 

“Go ahead,” Harry tells him, uncaring, but there’s a flicker of emotion on his face that Louis struggles to distinguish. It’s gone before he can decide what it is, replaced with his typical guarded visage, like there’s something he keeps locked away behind it all.

 

He lights it with his hand cupped around it to block the wind before slipping his lighter back into his pocket. Vices and all of that.

 

“It’s always the same,” Harry says very quietly.

 

“Hm?”

 

“My dream. It’s always the same.”

 

“Oh.” They stop walking, Clifford is smelling something invisible, or maybe even nonexistent, on the sidewalk. Louis stands in a certain way so he isn’t breathing smoke right in Harry’s face. “Wanna tell me about it?”

 

Harry sighs. “It’s just like. I dunno.”

 

“It’s okay,” Louis tells him, commencing walking again as the heavy wind blows right through his coat, chilling him to the bone. “You’re okay, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. It’s just like- You know that feeling when you’re screaming and no sound comes out?”

 

Louis shudders, shivering partly from the cold and partly from the knowledge of what Harry’s talking about. “Yeah, I do. It’s awful. So scary.”

 

Harry nods, swallowing thickly. “That’s what it is.”

 

“Your dream?”

 

“Yeah, part of it.”

 

Louis doesn’t ask about the other part. Harry doesn’t tell him.

 

“Excited for your art show?” he asks once the sun is just peeking over the horizon, blocked from sight by all the buildings that surround them.

 

“Nervous.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Too many people seeing my art.”

 

“I get it,” Louis says, though he’s not exactly sure if he does. “It’s personal, right?”

 

Harry nods. “Like an ugly part of me I don’t want anyone to see.”

 

Louis laughs lightly, grabbing Harry’s hand and interlacing their fingers. His roommate doesn’t react, which is better than flinching away he supposes. “I’m sure it’s lovely, H.”  _No part of you is ugly_ , he doesn’t say even though he wants to, even though he should.

 

They walk for a while longer, not really talking about anything important, but still talking. It’s calming, and comfortable, and pleasant despite it all. Even if Louis is exhausted, he’d rather be making sure Harry is okay than leaving him alone to go back to sleep. It’s a worthy sacrifice.

 

The sun has fully risen by the time they get back to the apartment. While Louis heads back to bed, Harry gets dressed and says he’s going to the studio since he won’t be able to sleep anyways. Louis barely has time to wonder how Harry functions on so little sleep, when he falls asleep himself.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


That night, Louis accompanies Harry to the gallery early, before the crowd arrives.

 

Harry had returned to the apartment to change his clothes into something more formal, swapping light-washed jeans for black ones and a matching black blouse instead of his oversized, colorful knit sweater. He had been wearing his glasses earlier while he was at the studio, but as always he took them off as he entered the apartment, like he didn’t want Louis to see him wearing them. It was a strange idiosyncrasy. An insecurity, perhaps.

 

Unlike his roommate, Louis doesn’t know what to wear, so he struggles for a while before following Harry’s lead with black jeans and a burgundy jumper. He styles his hair, which is something he hasn’t done in a long time, and by the time he’s finished he’s quite impressed with his appearance. Harry is standing nervously at the door when Louis joins him, finally ready to leave.

 

“Am I late?”

 

Harry shakes his head distractedly, already opening the door. “No, sorry. I’m just nervous.”

 

“Oh okay. It’ll be fun, yeah? You’ll finally get recognition for your work.” He tries to sound reassuring but he isn’t sure it carries through with the tone of his voice. Harry just smiles weakly at him and they walk through the city without saying much else.

 

The exhibit, as it turns out, is in a showroom on the artsier side of the city where everything is more upscale and way less grimy. It’s on the third floor, actually, so they climb up the narrow staircase up to the second floor. When his eyes land on the sight before him, he feels a little breathless, seeing all the art hanging on the walls.

 

They’re the first people to arrive. Harry had the key to get in and his slips it back into his pocket after twisting the key nervously around its ring. The entire exhibit is dead silent aside from the quiet hum of the radiator in the background, surprisingly old for the modern-looking building.

 

The gallery itself has a minimalistic theme and singular, dark tones for the wall color. It’s obvious that it’s set up for a nighttime showing, with ambient lighting that spotlights the art without detracting from it, setting the middle of the room into a moody atmosphere. Louis steps into the center of it all and looks around, impressed, yet not focusing on one singular piece.

 

Harry comes up behind him, almost startling him except that Louis finds his presence calming, reassuring. “This room is a conglomeration of everyone’s work, but the smaller rooms are dedicated to the top artists in the program.”

 

“Oh. Do you have your own room?”

 

“I do,” he responds quietly, and when Louis turns around to face him he looks shy and bashful.

 

“Wow, that’s awesome! Congrats. Which room is it?”

 

“Uhhh…”

 

Louis gives him his best reassuring smile. “You can tell me if you don’t want me to see it. I promise I’ll honor your decision and not look, if that’s what you want. All you have to do is say the word.”

 

“It’s not- I’m just-” he stutters, smacking his hands over his face and keeping them there to cover his eyes and groan. “I don’t know.”

 

“Would you rather I not look at your work until the event actually starts?”

 

“I um. Okay.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds okay.”

 

“Alright. Shall we walk around and look at the other art, or..?”

 

Harry nods, not meeting Louis’ eyes, and Louis loops his arm around Harry’s to pull them together, side by side. He lets Harry take the lead because he has no real idea where he’s going, and while Harry is hesitant at first he eventually guides Louis into one of the smaller rooms where they walk clockwise, admiring the art hanging on the walls.

 

They move quietly, observing each piece with patience and attention. Louis keeps their arms hooked together, pleased by the feeling of his roommate’s warm body pressed against his own. He tries not to think about their proximity to each other and arduously attempts to remain focused on the art, but it’s difficult because everything about Harry is so distracting.

 

Drawings, paintings, photographs, sculptures… The gallery contains a multitude of art forms and they find themselves lost in it all. For a chemical engineering major, Louis has never really ventured to the art side of campus, and has never been close with an art major, so he has never had the opportunity to attend an event like this. Now that he’s here, he sees how amazing it is.

 

People begin to enter the gallery when Louis and Harry are only on the second room, but they don’t pay them any mind. It isn’t until the event actually begins that Harry gently detaches himself from Louis’ arm and pulls away apologetically.

 

“I should probably talk to some of my professors,” he explains. A select group of professors are reviewing the art tonight and grading it for the final exam, though there’s at least a month left of the semester. Harry explains they have one last project before the end of the fall semester which will be about fifty percent of their final grade. The other half is based on the students’ art in tonight’s gallery.

 

Louis nods understandingly, patting Harry on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em.”

 

Harry glides away towards one of his professors while Louis heads to the last small room he hasn’t yet visited: Harry’s.

 

The walls are plum colored but muted and dark; Louis hardly notices. His eyes land on the first piece and he’s immediately captivated by interest. It’s a photograph matted on a white background with a simple frame.

 

The picture is of an antique white clawfoot bathtub full of pink, cloudy water with flower petals floating on the surface. Sunlight is streaming through an open window, sending beams of golden light to reflect on the surface of the water as dust particles sparkle slightly in the air.

 

There are a few more artful close-ups of some of the flower petals mixed with cloudy pink water, and some of the structure of the bathtub.

 

The fourth piece is striking. It’s a photograph of the same bathtub but this time with Harry in it. Louis is shocked and actually leans in to get a closer look, making sure it’s actually Harry and not just someone who looks similar. But no, he recognizes the tattoos on the back of his arm. Harry is sitting naked in the tub with his back to the camera, head bowed, in a position of innocence, submission, and vulnerability. Louis stares at the water drops on his pale skin and wonders how he could be so beautiful.

 

He has to tear his eyes away for the sake of seeing the rest of Harry’s work. He had never even considered Harry to be into photography let alone self-portraits, but here Louis is now looking at an entire room full of his photographical art.

 

The fifth piece is a change in media: a graphite sketch as opposed to a printed photograph. Louis can recognize Harry’s drawing style, just like the sketches of the girl sitting on the stool Harry showed him that one night when they were sitting so closely on the couch. This drawing is much more intricate and polished but it still has Harry’s distinctive style, the way he moves the pencil over the paper, the specific lines he draws and exactly how he draws them. It’s a blooming flower, only pencil and paper and no color, but even then it is clearly blossoming and at the height of its opulence.

 

The next five pieces are similar, although it’s obvious the photographs have been taken at a greater time interval, probably an hour or so after the bath was first drawn. The sunlight is dwindling, the ambience dimmer, and the flower petals are beginning to wilt, some of them already sinking below the pink water. The tenth piece is another drawing of the same flower but more wilted, the edges of the petals curling slightly, the lines heavier and darker.

 

And then there’s Harry. One picture of him in this series of five, no longer in the tub but lying on a bed. White sheets cover him from the waist down, but Louis isn’t paying much attention to the racy show of skin because he’s more focused on something else. The bruises, of course.

 

Not on his face like before, but something different. Hickeys on his neck and bruises in the shape of fingertips on his hips. Raised red lines, scratches from nails, covering his stomach, too harsh to be sexual. Beautiful and horrible all at the same time.

 

Harry’s eyes are closed and he looks peaceful. The sunlight is duller now, tinged sightly pink, and Louis can only assume it’s just the beginning of sunset in the picture. His hair is dark, as if he just dried off from the bath and slipped into bed. Louis’ eyes follow the lines of his neck to his distinct collarbones, down past his strong chest to his ribcage and then the butterfly on his soft tummy, and the laurels beside his navel. The outline of his body, his soft curves and the slight pudge of his hips.

 

It’s intimate. Too intimate, in fact, but Louis guesses that’s the point. He feels as though he’s intruding on a private moment no one is meant to see. It’s personal and intrusive and worrying. He understands why Harry was so shy about sharing his art in the first place.

 

Louis moves on, following the flow of the room and observing each piece with care. With each step he takes, the flowers wilt more and more. By the time he gets to the next picture of Harry, still lying in bed but this time curled up with his arms wrapped around himself. He has different bruises in different places and this time they’re worse. Darker, heavier, more prominent. Covering his ribcage and the visible side of his back, love bites mixed in with it all. There’s a pale purple shadow on his jawline like it was hit but not hard enough to fully blossom into an indigo bruise.

 

He’s almost to the end. The flowers are wilted and the sun is setting more and more in each photo, dipping closer and closer to the horizon. The bruises are getting worse and worse, darker and more severe. There’s blood. A split lip and cuts on his rib cage and the rust color of dried blood from the scratches on his stomach which are deeper now.

 

The petals are falling. The pretty orchids are decaying, completely wilted. The sun is nearly gone.

 

He’s at the end. The last picture before it’s just a solid plum-colored wall, shadowed by the spotlights on the art pieces.

 

It’s a photograph of Harry tangled in the sheets, zoomed out now so his whole body is visible from his curly hair framing his face to his bare feet, toes curled slightly. His long legs up to his hips, bruises on his thighs like someone hit him hard with a baseball bat, swinging and hitting, making him  _ hurt. _

 

Above the waist it’s all bruises, some new and some old but no skin is left unblemished. The indigo and violet blends into the black ink of his tattoos. His split lip is no longer bleeding but rusty blood is smeared on his deeply bruised jaw. His hair is tangled and sticky, wet with sweat or bath water or whatever it is. His eyes are closed but this time he doesn’t look as though he’s asleep. He looks as though he is dead.

 

Louis has to tear himself away from the last photograph, refusing to believe it’s the end. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns away, feeling sick to his stomach, enough to actually puke.

 

He doesn’t know what to make of any of it. He has been in this room for nearly an hour and people are standing around the room chatting amiably with each other, analyzing Harry’s art. No one is shocked. No one is frightened. No one except Louis.

 

They all think the bruises and the blood is fake, like stage makeup or photo editing, or even a mix of both. But Louis… Louis remembers the nights Harry came home, crying, covering his face. Hiding the bruises. He has witnessed the following days when Harry has dressed in comfortable clothes and said he was going to the studio. Louis understands now that Harry was going to the studio to take self-portraits. To lie naked on a mattress and capture the mix of indigo and lavender blending like a homemade art project, right on his skin. To photograph his abuse and call it art.

 

He turns around, away from the photographs that leave this heavy feeling deep in his stomach. Worry and fear. He walks quickly out of the room, desperate to get away. Desperate to find Harry.

 

He’s in the main room, standing beside one of his own drawings of an array of flowers, like the ones Louis has already seen but on a larger scale. Harry’s smiling tightly, speaking with one of his professors in a cordial tone. Louis will have to wait.

 

He wanders around and tries to enjoy the other art but he can’t focus on any of it. Eventually he just decides to escape to the bathroom for a moment to recollect himself. His mind is spinning and he has no idea what to do.

 

Louis runs through what he knows, the facts he has been turning over in his head for many days now. He thinks about them so often, he nearly has a checklist in his mind.

 

Someone is hurting Harry. His ex-boyfriend. Harry keeps going back to him despite it all, on weekend nights when he dresses in his tightest jeans and something lace beneath. And then he comes back hours later, beaten up and crying, bruises and scratches everywhere.

 

Is this abuse the cause of his nightmares or is it something else entirely? Obviously this isn’t all there is in terms of trauma, but it certainly can’t help. So why does he keep going back?

 

At the end of the showing, only the artists and professors remain, among a few invited friends. Louis has been hanging around Liam a lot ever since he finished walking Harry’s room, but he hasn’t been saying much because he still feels so worried and upset. Liam, who has been his good friend for years, notices something is wrong but doesn’t say anything about it, for which Louis is grateful.

 

The general consensus is to go out for drinks, even though Louis really would rather go home to curl up in bed and maybe cry a little bit, or a lot. But if Harry is going out, that means Louis is too, because tonight he has decided once and for all to never leave him alone. He has to make sure Harry doesn’t get hurt again.  _ Someone _  has to watch out for him.

 

He really wants to talk to Harry, but there isn’t any time. Especially when they get to the bar and Harry disappears almost immediately. Louis is worried and concerned by he has no idea what to do. He isn’t in the mood to drink, especially when he already feels sick, but he orders a drink and sips it so no one will question him.

 

It’s insanely crowded but they manage to get a small table near the back where they all have to squeeze together to fit in the booth. Louis laughs at his friends’ jokes and pretends to keep up with the conversation but mostly his mind is elsewhere. He’s sitting so he can see the whole bar without even turning his head, and he can’t help it when he finds himself constantly searching for Harry.

 

It’s half an hour later when he sees him, though, and by then Louis is worried and cranky and just wants to go home but not without Harry. But then he looks up and he sees Harry leaning against the bar, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and looking up into the eyes of the man standing very close to him.

 

The uncomfortable, sickening feeling in Louis’ stomach swells and he isn’t clueless or ignorant enough to know it isn’t jealousy. But the fact that he’s jealous is worrisome in itself because there’s no reason for Louis to be jealous of his roommate talking to another person at a bar and maybe standing a little too close and fluttering his eyelashes a little too much, but the point remains.

 

Louis sighs and drinks the last of his beer, his hand tightening around the glass without meaning to. He can’t take his eyes away even though he wants to, so desperately, because it hurts in a stupid way. It hurts in a way it shouldn’t hurt. Louis has no right to feel this way.

 

The man Harry is talking to is tall and chillingly handsome. His attractiveness is the kind that’s more intimidating than appealing, the kind that says he could get anything he wants and he doesn’t even have to ask. He looks professional and well-off and uptight, and exudes this dark sort of power that feels vaguely threatening.

 

Louis is unimpressed. Harry is captivated.

 

It’s difficult to tell from this angle but it looks like Harry has a shy smile on his face as he tucks his chin down, coyly shifting from side to side. The man leans down to whisper something in Harry’s ear, cupping the back of his neck with the palm of his hand in a gesture so possessive it’s almost authoritarian. When he pulls back, Harry laughs and peels himself away from the bar, heading towards the door. The man walks beside him with his palm resting barely above Harry’s bum. His hand slides down to grope at him as they walk further away and Louis stupidly, unwarrantedly sees red.

 

“What are you looking at, Tommo?”

 

“Is that him?” he asks, pointing towards where they’re nearly to the door.

 

Liam follows his line of sight and his eyes land on the two of them exiting the bar. He doesn’t say anything except, “Oh.”

 

As soon as they’re out of sight, Louis sets his drink down and stands up abruptly.

 

“Where are you going?” Liam asks, baffled.

 

“Home. I’m exhausted.”

 

“Louis…”

 

“That’s him, right? That’s his ex?”

 

“Lou-”

 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He knows he’s acting irrationally and probably sounds crazy but he just can’t help it. He needs to know. So he asks, “What’s his name?”

 

“Louis-”

 

Louis turns to Zayn. “What’s his name, Zayn?”

 

Zayn observes Louis for a moment, fiddling cooly with the neck of his beer. Zayn is perceptive and always gives Louis the feeling he knows more than he lets on. “Roman Murphy.”

 

Louis nods. “And he- He,” he can’t even get the words out.  _ He hurts Harry.  _ “You know what? Nevermind.” With that, Louis gathers his belongings and leaves without saying anything else. It’s rude but he doesn’t have the heart to care right now. The person Louis has been comforting for weeks, holding him as he cries and waking him from nightmares and walking on eggshells, has just left the bar with the very person who makes him cry, the very person who gives him nightmares. The very person who  _ hurts _  him.

 

He walks home alone, through the city that never sleeps. It’s more dangerous for him to be alone so he walks quickly, keys between his fingers, ready to run if he needs to. Luckily, he makes it home safely. But his mind is elsewhere.

 

His mind is with Harry. Harry who is probably kissing or being kissed, right at this very moment. Harry who is probably flirting and giggling and being let into his ex’s apartment. Harry who is probably accepting a glass of wine and letting himself be wooed. Harry who is probably pulling off his clothes and slipping into a bed that isn’t his own…

 

And then what happens? What comes after they fuck? Does Roman hit him afterwards or does it happen while they’re going at it… Does he slap his face and sink his teeth into his throat and do every gruesome thing he does to leave marks and bruises all over Harry’s skin… Does he make it hurt on purpose, because he wants it to, because he’s sadistic and he enjoys the power of it all, the way he has Harry wrapped around his finger, Harry who would beg for it at the slightest inclination…

 

Louis bites his cheek so hard he tastes blood. Anything to get him to stop thinking about it. There’s nothing he can do right now, but he just knows Harry is going to come home early in the morning, hurt and upset. He does his best to push it from his mind.

 

Showering usually makes Louis feel better but tonight it does nothing to quell the anxious feeling beneath his skin. He dries off and then slips into bed naked after making a cup of tea. The raspberry pomegranate tea doesn’t make him feel any better either. He drinks half of it and then gives up, turning off the light to encase the room in darkness.

 

Louis is still awake hours later when Harry comes stumbling into the apartment, crying. But this time, Louis doesn’t get out of bed.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Guilt creeps up on him. In the morning, he feels like the worst person on earth.

 

He wakes up early and the apartment is quiet. The door to Harry’s room is closed and he hears no sound behind it when he passes, although he doesn’t really expect to hear anything. Blithely, he hopes he’s asleep.

 

But then it’s ten minutes later and Louis is sitting at the kitchen table feeling momentous amounts of guilt for not checking up on Harry last night. Then he gets this strangely intrusive thought that maybe Harry really isn’t okay right now and that’s why his room is so quiet. Maybe he’s hurt, and badly, and it would be all Louis’ fault for not checking to see if he was okay.

 

So he goes to Harry’s door and stands there for a long while, wondering what to do and fearing what he’ll see if he goes inside. Eventually he sucks it up and knocks very gently on the door.

 

There’s no response. Louis is worried but hoping Harry’s sleeping. He twists the handle open, pushes the door forward, and peers inside.

 

He’s lying on the bed, eyes open and trained on the ceiling. Unmoving. For an awful moment Louis thinks he’s dead.

 

“Harry?”

 

He flinches at the sound of Louis’ voice but doesn’t look away from the ceiling. Louis is relieved he isn’t dead but overcome with a new sense of worry as he takes in the new damage covering Harry’s face, neck, and arms. The rest of his skin is hidden by his t-shirt or the blankets but it can be assumed he’s just as beaten up everywhere else.

 

“Is it alright if I come in?”

 

Harry still doesn’t say anything but he finally looks in Louis’ direction and nods.

 

Louis crosses the room and sits down beside him on the mattress. Harry keeps staring in the ceiling and Louis looks up to see if there’s anything there, but all he sees is blank white. He wants to ask,  _ What are you looking at? What do you see? _  Yet he’s afraid of the answer he might receive.

 

“Care to tell me what happened?” Is the question that comes out instead. Louis plays with the corner of the sheets and doesn’t even try to meet Harry’s eyes. It’s early morning, and the sun is up but hidden by the clouds. The room is darker than usual, illuminated by cold silvery light.

 

Harry doesn’t say anything. Louis doesn’t expect him to. He grabs at Harry’s hand and gently holds it in his own, enjoying the heavy weight and pleasant warmth. His long fingers are still and unmoving in Louis’ grasp, but they twitch when Louis softly strokes his the back of his palm with his thumb.

 

“So you saw him last night,” Louis says, pushing forward because he knows Harry isn’t going to talk on his own. He swallows thickly before saying his name. “Roman. Right?”

 

Harry flinches again at the sound of the name falling from Louis’ lips, but remains silent.

 

“Why did you go back to him?”

 

No response.

 

“He hurts you,” Louis says.

 

“He loves me.” Quiet, like an excuse.  _ He loves me. _  Like a secret.

 

_ He doesn’t love you, _  Louis doesn’t say.  _ That’s not love. That’s not what love is. _

 

“But he did this to you.” Louis points at Harry with his free hand. He wants to run his fingers down his skin, wants to trace the damage until it fades to nothing. It’s so… It’s agonizing, seeing him so downtrodden and broken. “Why do you… Why do you let him do this to you?”

 

Harry is more pliant and obedient this morning than he is on any other, his body language and demeanor more relaxed than it has ever been, as if the walls he has built up over the years are perhaps more diaphanous today. It must be the pain of it all. The exhaustion. He seems more willing today than any other, more open. Like Louis could poke and prod inside of him to find out what’s wrong if he tries hard enough.

 

“Why do I sleep with him, you mean?”

 

Louis bites his lip, nodding. Harry pulls his hand back to his chest, tugging the blankets up higher to cover himself. He glares at the wall, pointedly not looking in Louis’ direction, but the willingness is still there, like there’s this tiny part of him that’s glad that he asked, that someone cares enough to push him to open up just enough to spill his secrets.

 

“You  _ really _  want to know?” His voice is quiet, but there’s a caustic and biting underlacing to his tone, something dark and cynical. Demoralized.

 

“Yeah, H. I do.”

 

There’s a pause where Harry breathes in deeply, obviously jaded, exhausted. When he spills out the truth, as if they’re too honest and intimate for a morning conversation, the words hang heavy in the air.

 

“I’m only sleeping with him because I’m afraid if I say no he won’t love me anymore.”

 

Louis doesn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t that. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods in acknowledgement, hardly pretending to understand. Why would Harry want the person that hurts him to love him? There’s something wrong there. Something dark and something messed up.

 

There’s something pathetic about it too, something pitiful about letting someone fuck you because you’re afraid they’re going to leave you. Trading sex for love but only because you’re afraid of the austere alternative… afraid of the ugly unwantedness that hangs onto your skin forever.

 

“Did you get any sleep last night?” He asks instead, changing the subject slightly. It’s safer here, back to surface-level questions that aren’t too intrusive, with answers that aren’t too telling.

 

It’s obvious Harry’s lying when his gaze shifts to the side again and he responds, “A little.”

 

“Are you going to try to sleep now?”   
  
  


“I’m fine.”

 

“I’m going to get you some ice for your-”  _ Bruises _ , he doesn’t say. There’s an uncomfortable pause, void of everything but silence. “And some Advil. And some extra blankets. Do you want anything else?”

 

Harry laughs a little like he can’t believe Louis is doting over him. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to be able to sleep, anyway. It’s fine.”

 

“Why not? What else are you going to do? You’re not seriously thinking of going out when you’re so beat up, are you?”

 

“I’m fine, Lou. I promise.”

 

The nickname again, this time used more as a form of placation than anything. Its utilization and specific placement might even be purposeful. Louis shakes his head, finally giving in to that protective instinct that has been gnawing away at him ever since Harry first showed up in his apartment. “Will you please stay here today and try to get some sleep? And let me take care of you?”

 

Harry looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead he just shrugs as best as he can since he’s lying down, and looks away. Louis sighs and heads out of the room, towards the kitchen.

 

He fills a bag of ice and wraps it in a towel before going to the cupboard for Advil. The bottle is almost empty; he needs to go to the store for more. He’s been meaning to go to the store anyways, to pick up some flour because Harry has been baking a lot lately, and some batteries because the TV remote stopped working.

 

Louis heads back to Harry’s room with all the things he said he’d bring. Harry sits up in bed and downs a few pills, drinking about half the water bottle. When he’s finished, Louis eases him back down and contemplates for a while before deciding the ice would be best for the bruises on his stomach.

 

“All good?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

 

“No problem. Just tell me if you need anything, yeah?”

 

Harry nods but Louis can tell there’s no way in hell he’d ever ask Louis to do something for him. Louis sighs, sparing Harry one last lookover to make sure he’s okay before retreating back to his own room to get some work done. Exams are coming up within the next few weeks and his classes this semester are daunting.

 

Around lunchtime, he goes to check up on his roommate again and finds him curled up in bed staring at the wall, not moving except for the slow, deep breaths which cause his chest to rise and fall. It’s a peaceful position but Louis knows Harry is anything but peaceful right now. Considering everything that has been happening lately, he can only guess what’s going on in his mind.

 

Since it’s the polite thing to do and he doesn’t want to barge in unannounced, he raps his knuckles on the door frame before leaning on it. Harry looks up, startled but only slightly.

 

“Hey. I’m making lunch. Want anything?”

 

“No thanks.”

 

Louis frowns at him for a long, calculating moment. He’s certain Harry hasn’t eaten breakfast either. With a sigh that does not signify defeat, he turns on his heel to the kitchen. Only fifteen minutes later does he return to Harry’s bedroom, this time with a satisfied stomach and a plate in his hands.

 

“I made you tea and a bagel anyway,” he says without preempt, coming up beside Harry and handing him the tray.

 

Harry takes it with tentative hands, uncertain. Louis sets the mug of tea on the floor in a place where it won’t be bumped into, sitting beside him on the low mattress.

 

“You didn’t have to do this…”

 

Louis shrugs. The  _ I wanted to _  goes unsaid.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


It’s 6:30 PM that same Saturday when Louis finds himself standing in the baby aisle of the nearest CVS.

 

He doesn’t know how he got into this exact situation, really. He supposes it has to do with the fact that he has been needing to go to the store to pick up various necessities and it’s about time he acts like an adult and goes out and does what he needs to do.

 

So he has a basket containing a bottle of painkillers, a bag of flour, and many boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese, among other items from the grocery list he and Harry keep on the refrigerator. The handle is balanced in the crook of his elbow as the basket hangs by his hip. He’s stranded in the baby aisle and contemplating something crazy.

 

He had been heading for the checkout, just passing through, when a very specific  _ something _  caught his eye. Walking past it at first and then turning around and backtracking, Louis finds himself staring at the multiple shelves of assorted stuffed animals. His eyes are on the one in the center—the incredibly soft-looking bunny rabbit with floppy ears and silky pink fur.

 

And he’s-

 

He’s thinking about Harry.

 

The way he curls up when he’s afraid, always clinging to something in his arms, perhaps a pillow or the edge of the blanket. He’s thinking about the nightmares, and about the comfort of holding something, of having a softness in your arms. He’s thinking about all the times he has wanted so desperately, so badly, to just engulf Harry in his arms and hold him close, to comfort him yes, but also as a form of comfort for himself. So he finds himself standing in front of a shelf full of stuffed animals, wondering if he has gone crazy, because he’s seriously considering buying a fluffy pink bunny for his traumatized roommate.

 

He knows he has really lost it when he finds himself, a little while later, paying twenty dollars for a goddamn stuffed rabbit.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“Hey, kiddo,” Louis greets as soon as he’s through the door, eyeing Harry on the couch. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, the printed words on the front nearly rubbed off completely from overwear. His knees are pulled to his chest, arms around his legs, bare feet on the edge of the couch cushion. Clifford is snuggled happily to his side. They’re watching a cooking show on TV, maybe  _ Chopped _ . “Alright?”

 

“Yeah, good,” Harry answers, looking the opposite of alright despite his affirmative answer. He’s completely downtrodden, his eyes tired. Hands shaking. He looks cold.

 

Louis grabs the blanket from the armchair and tosses it over to Harry, not relaxing until he bundles up in it, though the shivering still doesn’t stop.

 

“You like mac and cheese, right?”

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“You always cook for me,” Louis interrupts, pointing out the inarguable truth. They’ve been eating a lot of meals together lately since Louis never really leaves the apartment anymore except for his classes and Harry doesn’t seem so inclined to go out either. “Let me do it for once, yeah?”

 

Harry sighs and doesn’t meet him eyes. His hands are still shaking on top of the blanket. Louis wants to hold them in his own until they stop trembling. “Okay.”

 

He heads to the kitchen and sets the plastic bags down on the countertop. When he grabs the boxes of mac and cheese, the pink head of the bunny peaks out of the bag and Louis immediately blushes at his own stupidity. What was he thinking? How is he supposed to give that to Harry? He’s so embarrassed, he nearly chucks it away in the trash or maybe even out the window. He sighs as he gets a pot of water on the stove, thinking maybe he’ll just give it to one of his siblings when he finally visits them again.

 

With two bowls, two wine glasses, and a bottle of red cradled to his chest by his hands, balancing precariously, Louis reenters the living room. Harry immediately rushes to help him, scolding him for carrying so much without asking Harry to help.

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine.”

 

They sit down beside each other and dig into their bowls after Harry pours them each a sufficient glass of wine.

 

“Hey Harry?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I, um. Can I ask you something?”

 

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause where Harry stares down into his bowl of mac and cheese and Louis can practically hear his heart beating anxiously from here. “Ehm… Yeah, of course.”

 

He doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t even really know  _ what _  to ask, either. There’s just  _ so much _  and  _ none of it makes sense _ . So he just comes out and says the first question his mind offers:

 

“How long have you had nightmares?”

 

If Harry looked uncomfortable before, there isn’t a word to describe the magnitude of his discomfort right  _ now, _  as soon as the words leave Louis’ mouth, floating through the air and processing in his mind. But he refuses to take them back.

 

“Ehm…”

 

Louis discards his bowl on the table even though he didn’t eat all of his dinner, really. He turns on his side and brings his legs up on the couch, curled so he’s facing Harry. Hoping to convey a casual and relaxed demeanor, he tips his head to the side and rests it on the back of the couch, softening his face into a less intense expression. “Months?” He asks. “Or longer?”

 

“I’ve had them since- Since I was a kid.”

 

Oh. Louis gnaws on his thumb nervously at that. A big part of him had been hoping Harry’s nightmares were a recent occurrence, a byproduct of his unhealthy relationship. It had been a possibility, but if he’s been having nightmares since childhood…

 

“Have you ever talked to anyone about them?”

 

“Like- Therapy?”

 

“Maybe. Yeah. Or just, anyone.”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

Louis bites his thumb some more, nervously. “You sure? I’m all ears.”

 

“No- I don’t- I wouldn’t even know what to tell you.”

 

He isn’t a therapist or a psychology major or anything of the like, so he has no idea where to start. He tries to replicate what he’s seen on TV, but it’s harder than they make it seem. “Do you remember when you first started having them?”

 

Harry looks like he doesn’t want to go along with Louis’ questionable questioning but he goes with it anyways. “I… I was really young. I’ve been having them for as long as I can remember.”

 

The thought of a smaller version of Harry, cute and childlike in his innocence and stature, probably only three or four years old, not being able to sleep because he has nightmares that frighten him… The thought of that, so dark and horrible, shakes something deep in Louis’ core.

 

“And you really never told anyone?”

 

“No one who would listen,” Harry affirms quietly.

 

That gross, ugly feeling churns again. Louis shifts forward, wishing he had more wine but the bottle is so far away. “Well, I’m listening. So tell me, if you want. If you- If you think it might help.”

 

Harry sighs, not making eye contact. Louis can deal with that. Harry is being incredibly open right now, and of course it’s difficult for him, of course it’s a challenge. It may not seem like much but Louis knows it is and he’ll give Harry all the credit he deserves. He’s brave for doing this, for speaking up, even if it’s to his college roommate who makes him mac and cheese and buys him stuffed animals from the drugstore a few blocks away.

 

“I know it won’t.”

 

“But it might feel better if you tell someone. If you tell me.”  _ So we can share it, so we can share the pain. The evil. _

 

“I already told you.”

 

“You did?”

 

“About the screaming… Not being heard. Being invisible…”

 

Louis hums contemplatively. “You’re not invisible.”

 

And the thing is, he’s not. Harry’s not invisible. He’s… radiant. Brilliant. Gorgeous, inside and out. His presence is captivating in the best of ways, and Louis often has to tear his eyes away after he realizes he has been staring. There’s something about Harry that’s so addictive, so sweet and alluring… He’s the opposite of invisible.

 

Harry smiles sadly. “In my dreams I am. But I- I didn’t tell you about the fire.”

 

“Fire?”

 

He nods but doesn’t elaborate. Louis imagines buildings burning and a tiny Harry running from the flames exploding behind him and proliferating, metastasizing like cancer cells in a host body. Harry escaping the destruction, escaping the devastation and the burning scent of skin on fire, the odor of death.

 

Harry, alone.

 

“Is that…” He doesn’t know how to approach it tactfully, so he disregards tact altogether. “Your parents?”

 

Harry’s eyes darken, his gaze hardening. “No.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“Embers, and… smoke. Like cigarette smoke.”

 

“Oh.” Sometimes Louis’ friends complain he reeks of smoke, even though he’s careful to never smoke in the house or the car. He wonders if it bothers Harry, if it triggers painful memories from his past.

 

But the smile is back, weak and a bit loopy. It isn’t enough to ease Louis’ anxieties. “Don’t worry, I like the smell.”

 

Louis’ brows furrow, his mind running a mile a minute. “You do? Why?”

 

Harry looks away again. “Reminds me of home.”

 

It startles Louis when he realizes he doesn’t know where Harry is from. It illuminates the truth that he hardly knows anything about him at all… and yet. And yet he already feels so strongly about him, already would protect him with everything he has because Harry is just so vulnerable, so broken, and Louis wants to fix him. Louis needs to fix him.

 

His voice is soft, quiet. Careful. “Where is home?”

 

The gentle smile curving his lips, indicative of fond memories arising. “Illinois.”

 

“Corn fields?” Louis teases carefully. He hadn’t known Harry was from Illinois but now he can imagine him there. A strange child from the Midwest, with pale skin, dark hair, and big eyes. Running down country roads, going to school with a class of only fifty students at most; the epitome of small-town America. Spending his summer nights stargazing, reaching out to touch the sky, wondering if there’s anything out there reaching back…

 

The smile is bigger. Almost a grin but not quite. “Yeah, corn fields. Nothing else. Nothing for miles. You could scream and no one would ever hear…”

 

Louis shudders.  _ As if you aren’t even screaming. As if you’re invisible.  _ “And fire?”

 

With one hand daintily holding his empty wine glass, Harry lets his hand fall to his thigh and rest there. He digs his fingers into his own skin through the fabric of his plaid pajama pants, pressing hard. “Cigarettes,” he says.

 

Louis is so confused but he doesn’t know how to get to what he wants to know. Instead, he watches Harry’s fingers and asks, “Do you smoke?”

 

“Only on special occasions.”

 

“Like when?”

 

“Anniversaries.”

 

Louis raises his brows. Getting Harry to open up is like pulling teeth. Each answer he gives is only more enigmatic and mysterious. “What kind of anniversaries?”

 

Harry shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

 

He means,  _ I’ll maybe tell you someday, but not today.  _ Louis voices his thoughts for confirmation. “Will you tell me sometime, then?”

 

“Maybe.” It sounds like a lie.

 

Louis has done enough pressing tonight. Unfortunately, he’s more confused now. Obviously trauma is complicated, but the complexity in this case is overwhelming, especially when the knowledge Harry has shared with him is hardly even the tip of the iceberg.  _ It’s always worse than it seems,  _ he thinks dully.

 

“Okay.” And then, for the sake of changing the subject, he blurts out, “I bought you something.”

 

A pause. Then, “What?”

 

Louis nods, swallowing heavily. He catches Harry’s eyes on his throat, watching his adam’s apple bobbing. He blusters forward, no going back now. “At CVS. They had- Well, you’ll see.”

 

He has to stand up from the couch to retrieve the gift from the kitchen. On the way there, he realizes his palms are sweaty with nerves. He wipes them on his thighs and pulls the rabbit out of the bag, wondering how the hell he ever got into this situation to begin with, and why he didn’t drink enough wine to deal with it. Also, why did he have to give in to the stupid voice inside his head yelling at him to buy everything soft and pink for Harry?

 

Harry is perched on the couch when he returns, sitting up straight with his feet on the floor in front of him and his hands moved from his thighs to his knees, eyes curious and a little nervous too. His voice is hopeful when he asks, “Is it candy?”

 

Louis laughs a little, worrying he might sound slightly manic. The stuffed animal is clutched behind his back, squeezed between clenched hands. “No, but it’s good to know you like candy.”

 

“Gummy bears,” Harry smiles. “Haribo.”

 

“Ha-ha get it? Harry-bo?”

 

He frowns, pursing his lips, but Louis can tell he’s holding back a fond smile. “You would’ve scolded me if I made that joke.”

 

Louis wants to argue but he would be lying anyways so he just shakes his head and pulls the stuffed animal from behind his back, shoving it towards Harry.

 

His eyes widen. “What’s this?”

 

“I dunno, it made me think of you?”

 

There’s a heavy beat of even heavier silence. Then, “Umm-”

 

“I know it’s weird,” Louis rushes, feeling slightly sick and sicker even when he realizes he’s so nervous for no good reason. The thing is, he’s never like this. What the hell happened? He used to be calm, collected, and  _ confident _ . Now all of that’s out the window, completely gone. He’s a stuttering mess and he feels like a child again. “I just thought, like, with your nightmares and everything it might be nice to have?”

 

“Oh.”

 

Louis laughs a little, wondering if he should give up now and play it off as a joke, like  _ oh, ha-ha, I saw this pink stuffed bunny and thought it was so funny and stupid, so I spent twenty dollars on it for no other reason than to give it to you as a prank so we could laugh at how ridiculous it would be for me to actually seriously buy you a stuffed bunny as a real gift. _

 

But then Harry is smiling softly. He takes the stuffed animal in his hands, pulling it away from Louis, and tugs it to his chest. He holds it close, resting his cheek on one of its long ears. “I love it,” he whispers into the pale pink, silky fur. “Thank you.”

 

The irrational worry in his heart ebbs, fading to the background, everything else turning warm. He’s relieved, now. Happy, even, to see Harry smiling softly again.

 

“It’s not weird,” he says. “It’s lovely. It’s just what I needed.”

 

Sometimes Louis needs to be reassured, just like Harry does. It’s different but the same, in a way. He collapses down on the couch, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “Okay, good.”

 

Harry scooches closer to him. The lighting in the living room isn’t the best, but it looks beautiful on him like this, illuminating the planes of his face, casting shadows over the bruises.

 

Louis wants to tell him but he thinks that’s something he shouldn’t say to his roommate, something he should probably just press behind his lips and keep to himself.

 

“Do you wanna- Are you cold?”

 

Louis shrugs, but the movement is interrupted by Harry sliding next to him anyways, not waiting for an answer, and wrapping his arm around his shoulder. He squeezes him in a cute, warm side-hug and doesn’t remove his arm when he’s finished. His head rests on Louis’ shoulder and cradles the bunny to his chest with his free arm.

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

“Keeping you warm,” Harry answers easily. He’s surprisingly good at this whole physical contact thing, especially for someone so shy. Louis supposes the fact that they’ve made a habit of pseudo cuddling on the couch at night is a probable reason why Harry is so comfortable doing this right now. “You’re often quite cold, did you know that?”

 

Louis rolls his eyes, tucking his cold hands into the side of Harry’s t-shirt. “And you’re often quite warm, did you know that? Like a human furnace.” He was shivering earlier, of course, but Louis thinks that has less to do with the temperature and more to do with the trauma.

 

Harry laughs, and the sound is warm like his skin, like his personality too. Beneath the shyness and timidity, there’s this shining person. Louis wants to be around that shining person all the time. He knows it isn’t possible so he’s willing to have Harry like this, to see glimpses of who he really is beneath the reticence.

 

He sees it sometimes, when they’re on their late night escapades. Despite the nightmares and the bruises and the tears and the exhaustion, there’s still something carefree about Harry. Something warm and sweet and pure.

 

“We fit together, then.”

 

Louis smiles, snuggling into Harry’s side and trying not to overthink anything. A bit of the hesitance and worry melts away when Harry starts stroking his arm. He calms at the soothing touch. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

 

They watch the next few episodes in relative silence, not talking about anything even though they have so, so many possible topics they need to discuss, so many conflicts to work out. Louis falls asleep tucked beneath Harry’s arm before it’s even nine o’clock.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


He wakes up stifling hot with a crick in his neck but somehow still so comfortable he doesn’t want to move.

 

“Lou,” someone is whispering in his ear, humid breath tickling his skin. “Lou, c’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

 

“Mmm,” Louis hums, keeping his eyes closed tightly to avoid looking into the lights. It’s just the lamp and the TV but after waking up everything is uncomfortably bright. Blurry and full of brilliant color.

 

He feels more than hears Harry sigh; he assumes he’s lying on his chest, with the way he’s been rising and falling rhythmically to a breathing pattern. In a way it feels as though he’s being rocked by the waves of the ocean. He enjoys it maybe a little too much.

 

“Alright, up you go,” Harry whispers, standing up and somehow lifting Louis with him. Louis is awake but not lucid enough to protest when he feels the ground sweeped out from beneath his feet. The swaying movement of the waves increases as he’s rocked back and forth, the sound of footsteps and breathing the only resonance his mind interprets.

 

Deposited on something soft that he barely registers as his own bed, Louis cracks his eyes open to see Harry hovering over him. He looks sleepy and rumpled, but divine all the same.

 

The thing about Harry is that he has this strange complexity to him that would be confusing if attached to anyone but him. He’s shy and fearful but not afraid to hug Louis for hours. He has nightmares that leave him screaming and crying but somehow he sometimes is the one to comfort Louis instead of the reverse. He happily cuddles with a pink stuffed animal meant for toddlers but then lifts Louis’ entirety with ease and carries him to bed, taking care of him.

 

The scariest part of it all is that Louis actually understands.

 

People aren’t cut and dry… nothing is only ever black or white. Nuances exist, adding complexity. Personality is intricate and sometimes convoluted. A singular person’s character can contain hundreds of facets, and there’s nothing to say some of them won’t be contradictory, though the whole typically makes sense.

 

Harry is the perfect example, Louis is sure of it. He may be confused about who Harry really is right now, but that’s because he doesn’t have all of the facts and thus doesn’t understand his reasons for doing what he does, his motivations.

 

Louis isn’t stupid, careless, or ignorant enough to ignore the damage or even to pretend it isn’t there. He’s beginning to understand the extent of it, even if he doesn’t know the cause.

 

Harry pulls the blankets up to his chin, tucking him in carefully.

 

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles, snuggling closer to the nest of blankets and closing his eyes. That’s all he remembers before he’s asleep again.

 

He’s certain he dreams the press of warm lips against his forehead.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The following morning is tranquil, full of comfortable silence and warm sunshine glistening in through the windows.

 

Harry works on art in his room, painting a canvas this time, but his door is open which is out of the norm and Louis takes it as a sign that he’s slowly opening up, which is progress. He’s very focused on his work, sitting on the floor beside the window with the canvas propped up in front of him. His hands are decorated in paint, getting all over the sheets covering the floor, dripping onto his pajamas too, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When Louis passes by the room on his way to make a cup of tea, he catches a glimpse of Harry brushing his hair away from his eyes, smearing a streak of blue on his cheek.

 

As he passes by the open doorway, endeared by the blue staining his skin after brushing that curl away, face distorted in a look of peaceful concentration, Louis hears him humming.

 

It’s miles different from the day he came home early and heard Harry full out singing, his voice chilling and deeply beautiful, crooning dark lyrics with meaning. Today he’s humming, happy and concentrated on his art, and it’s beautiful in a lighter way. It makes Louis smile.

 

So he doesn’t disturb him, for fear that the humming will stop. Instead, he makes himself a cup of tea and sits by the window in the kitchen with Clifford curled at his feet. He gets some work done, reorganizing his notes and revising. He has an exam tomorrow but he feels pretty confident that he’ll do well; he knows the content and even enjoys the class.

 

Around eleven o’clock, Harry emerges from his room dressed in joggers and a jumper, in the process of pulling on his worn jean jacket with all the colorful pins adorning it. The paint has been washed from his face and his cheeks are pink, hair wet from the shower.

 

“Heading somewhere?”

 

“I have some work to do at the gallery,” Harry informs, slipping on a pair of black Nike’s.

 

Right. The gallery. Immediately Louis’ mind flashes to the room dedicated entirely to Harry’s work, full of drawings and photographs. The flowers, the bathtub, the bruises… Louis has been meaning to talk to him about it but he hasn’t known how to bring it up.

 

“Oh, okay.” Louis smiles cordially.

 

Harry stands up to his full height after the laces are tied, lanky and awkward by the doorway. He’s hesitating, it’s obvious, but Louis doesn’t understand why.

 

So Louis asks. “What?”

 

Harry swallows thickly, shifting from foot to foot. “I was wondering if you… Um. There’s a lot of open space and it’s a nice change of scenery? If you want to come with me and study there, I mean.”

 

“Oh!” Louis exclaims, surprised. Never in a million years has Louis even considered the idea of Harry asking him to spend some time with him. Although he supposes they’ve been hanging out a lot together lately, and Harry seems much more comfortable in Louis’ presence. “Um, sure. That would be nice. I could use a change of scenery. Let me just get ready.”

 

So Louis gets dressed in clothes that are just as comfy as his pajamas but more socially acceptable, and they head out into the morning sunlight together. They don’t talk much, but the quiet is pleasant today.

 

The thing is, Louis really doesn’t feel like being reminded of Harry’s showcase—the photographs of his injuries, becoming progressively worse as the series continues. He has yet to bring it up to Harry and wonders if anyone else has talked to him about it.

 

That’s what makes Louis ache. The fact that Harry is so obviously in a bad situation and no one even cares enough to make sure he’s okay. Of course it’s easier to write off the graphic photos as artistic vision but Louis knows from firsthand experience the bruises and scratches are much more than an art project. He has held Harry through tears and coaxed him out of a dark mindset after a nightmare. He has iced his wounds and tried to ease the trauma. Louis knows better than anyone, apparently, that Harry has been through a lot and the photos hanging on the walls of the gallery, showing him so broken, are more than just photos.

 

So as Harry is opening the unlocked door and leading them into the gallery, Louis gathers his courage and decides to ask.

 

He starts off easy. “Do you think people liked your art?”

 

“Dunno. I hope so.”

 

“What did your professors have to say about it?”

 

“They liked it, I guess. Liked the title too, and the way I set up the room. The natural progression of the collection.”

 

The way the wounds got worse and the flowers wilted more and more, he means, until the end when everything was dead. Louis bites nervously at his thumbnail. “What was the title?”

 

“‘Rot.’”

 

It makes sense. Too much sense. The flowers wilting, the scratches deepening, the bruises darkening. The transition from purity to impurity. Innocence to  _ rot _ .

 

Louis hums in acknowledgement but can’t bring himself to say anything else. He wants to ask but he doesn’t know what to say.  _ How are you so comfortable turning your abuse into art and submitting it as a class assignment? _  It’s too harsh, too acerbic. Too unfeeling.

 

“I think I want to see it in the daylight,” Louis finally says instead, after they’ve walked up the stairs to the third floor where the projects from the showing are still hanging on the walls. There are a few people wandering through the rooms, admiring the art. “Will you come with me?”

 

Harry is reluctant. Louis can tell because his eyes flit to the floor and he bites the inside of his cheek like he wants to say no. But then he looks up and fleetingly meets Louis’ eyes, and gives a weak nod of affirmation.

 

Sunlight is streaming from the windows as Louis leads them to the small room full of Harry’s work alone. He stops at the first piece and Harry stops beside him. They’re silent as they observe. It looks different in the day.

 

Slowly, Louis walks through the gallery. Harry follows behind him and they don’t speak for a while. When they get to the picture of Harry in the bath with his back to the camera, Louis wants to grasp his hand or touch him in any reassuring way, really. He refrains, but his hands ache with want. With need.

 

They walk through it together this time and Louis feels strange knowing the subject of the art pieces in front of him is also standing beside him, gauging his reaction and looking on worriedly. They get to the end and Louis feels like crying because he can see the decomposition, he can understand the  _ rotting _ . When he looks over at Harry he sees his face is ghostly pale but resolute. Louis has never more felt like hugging him.

 

He doesn’t, though. He stands steadily by Harry’s side and turns to him completely now. “Tell me what it means,” he says, even though he knows. He wants to hear it from Harry.

 

“There’s a description on the plaque over there.”

 

He hasn’t read the description yet. He hadn’t noticed it on Friday, and today he skipped over it purposefully. “I want to hear it from you. I know it’s hard for you to say it out loud but I want to hear it from you. Please.”

 

“Okay. Can we- Can we sit down, please?”

 

“Alright.” Louis leads them to the center of the room, carrying his bag with him, and sits down cross-legged on the wood floor. Harry follows hesitantly, sitting across from him, and Louis scoots closer until their knees are touching.

 

Luckily, the room is empty, so they aren’t really disturbing anyone and no one is judging them for sitting on the ground in the middle of an art exhibit. From here, Louis can see through the doorway to the main gallery as a few people silently observe the art, flowing from one piece to another.

 

Louis drums his fingers on his knees, trying to catch Harry’s eyes. “So, what is it about, then?”

 

“Decomposition,” Harry says, his gaze on his hands which are folded nervously in his lap. “Degeneration and all of that. The deterioration of life. Of nature and humankind.”

 

“Rotting,” Louis agrees. “And the loss of innocence, too. Purity to impurity. Because of the bath, and then the bed, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“You set it up this way on purpose, obviously. Because you wanted to convey the flowers wilting and the bruises getting worse, and it ends with… it ends with the flower completely wilted, and you in bed with the most severe injuries compared to the rest of the photos. Because you wanted to convey the idea that life deteriorates, and so does humanity. Morality to immorality, innocence to corruption, life to death, good to evil, all of that. I get it.”

 

Harry nods slowly, eyes still on his hands, fingers entwined and twisting nervously.

 

“All because someone touched you?”

 

“What?”

 

“The shift from purity to impurity is because someone touched you. You used the… the transition from the bathtub, which represents virginity and purity and cleanliness, to the bed which is obviously the opposite, as a form of symbolism. Which means something specific happened to make you feel this way.”

 

“You should analyze art for a living,” Harry says, deflecting. “You’re good at it.”

 

“So I’m right?” He knows he’s right. He wants Harry to say it.

 

“You already know the answer.”

 

Louis shrugs, but there is no nonchalance. His insides are burning and it hurts more than he can say. He’s so worried for Harry, he doesn’t know what to do. “Fair enough. But I’m making a point. Will you let me show you something?”

 

Harry obliges, and Louis stands up from the floor, helping him up too. Instead of going back to the beginning of the series, Louis pulls Harry over to the end. They stand in front of the very last photo, the one that shows the entirety of Harry’s body as he lies in bed, battered and bruised, eyes staring off into the distance as if he’s dead.

 

“You took each of these pictures at different times, right? On different days, I mean. Because the bruises are all different each time.”

 

“Mhm,” Harry mumbles, hands falling helplessly to his sides. Louis knows this isn’t what he pictured when he invited Louis to come with him but Louis thinks this is important, this is something they need to do.

 

Right, so Harry’s answer is exactly what Louis thought. He thinks of the night he held Harry on the couch, and how the next morning he went right to the studio with a camera around his neck to photograph the damage. Here is this boy, abused by his ex-boyfriend, turning his injuries into art. It’s unhealthy. It’s insane.

 

“Okay. Walk this way with me please.”

 

They walk around the series backwards and it’s a strange juxtaposition to see the flowers blossom instead of wilt, to see the bruises fade instead of darken.

 

“Do you see?” Louis asks once they get to the very beginning, with the gorgeous flowers blooming and the bathtub with the petals floating languidly through the water. Clean and new.

 

“Louis, I don’t think- It doesn’t work that way.”

 

“Bruises fade, don’t they? Cuts heal.”

 

“But flowers don’t magically become alive again.”

 

“Maybe not. But humans are resilient.”

 

“Not always, but. I guess…”

 

Louis smiles up at him reassuringly. They’re standing close so he has to crane his neck more than usual. “And virginity is a made-up concept. A social construct. ‘Purity’ has nothing to do with sex.”

 

Harry looks like he doesn’t agree. He’s curling in on himself now too, with his arms wrapped around his stomach and his shoulders hunched. Uncomfortable, frightened, so many things. “What does it have to do with, then?”

 

“Goodness. Being kind to others, and to yourself.”

 

The room falls to silence and Louis decides to leave Harry be now, hoping he finally made his point that Harry is not wilted, damaged, or rotten because of whatever happened to him. He crosses the room to pick up his bag and exits the room to go find a good window to sit next by so he can study with natural lighting. Meanwhile Harry sets off to doing whatever it is he came here to do.

 

The rest of the day is peaceful. They stay at the gallery for a few hours, until Harry is finished. By then, Louis is satisfied with all the studying he has completed, and feels accomplished for being so productive.

 

When Harry returns to him, he’s smiling slightly. It makes Louis smile too, feeling lighter now that he sees Harry’s mood has lifted. His eyes are greener, brighter perhaps, and his expression is more relaxed. He runs a hand through his hair and the two of them walk together, back to their shared apartment. For once it feels less like Louis’ place that Harry is staying at, and more like  _ their _  place.

 

Of course, the undertones of melancholy are still there, and Louis can see the heavy darkness that resides behind Harry’s eyes. But perhaps today he feels a little bit better, and that’s all Louis can really ask for.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“I’m home!” Louis calls as soon as he enters the apartment, kicking off his shoes and throwing his bag to the floor. He’s been out all day at the research lab and is so glad to finally be back for the night, ready to relax. Clifford comes running up to him, whimpering impatiently until Louis smothers him with affection, scratching behind his ears just like he likes.

 

“In the kitchen,” Harry responds, his voice light and happy. It feels like a good day.

 

Louis follows the smell of food, with Clifford trailing happily behind him. He isn’t let down by the sight of Harry in front of the stove, cooking eggs and facon—fake bacon, because Harry is vegetarian. Louis actually likes the taste of it, which is surprising. He had been hesitant to try it the first time Harry made it, but now it has become a regular counterpart of their meals together. Nowadays, because Harry mostly cooks for him, Louis rarely ever eats meat. It’s something he never thought would happen, but here he is now actually craving facon. Crazy.

 

Anyways, Harry is wearing shorts and a t-shirt, despite the fact that it’s winter, and his bare legs look long and lean like a model’s, the line of them so aesthetically pleasing Louis has to admire him for a second. Harry is also wearing a cooking apron with a bright red and orange floral design on it—the apron he uses whenever he’s frying facon. The room smells so heavenly, Louis might be salivating.

 

“Breakfast for dinner?” Louis asks hopefully, coming up behind Harry and peeking over his shoulder. He can do this without fear of startling Harry because it’s a regular occurence now, and he already made his presence known by announcing his arrival.

 

“Eggs, facon, hashbrowns, and toast,” Harry informs, smiling easily but keeping his eyes down on the stovetop.

 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry from behind and squeezes his middle tightly. Harry freezes like he usually does when Louis touches him but doesn’t pull away immediately. Louis knows he’ll relax in a moment or two. “I love you, roomie. You treat me so well. What did I ever do without you?”

 

“Cereal for dinner,” Harry huffs, shrugging Louis off of him. Straightaway, Louis misses his warmth.

 

Louis doesn’t say anything because Harry isn’t wrong about eating cereal for dinner. It’s hard to believe he used to have very subpar meals, before Harry came into his life. Now he eats like a king. A vegetarian king.

 

It’s Wednesday night, a little more than a week after they walked the gallery together. Every weeknight Louis comes home from class or from research at the lab and is greeted by Harry cooking in the kitchen, making another delicious meal for dinner. It’s become quite the habit, and Louis repays him by doing the dishes and helping him shop for groceries.

 

Louis starts placing napkins and utensils on the kitchen table before Harry asks, “Will you set the table, Lou?” not looking away from the stove and Louis laughs, saying  _ yes, I’ll do it _  even though he’s already halfway finished with the task. It’s hard to ignore the fact that it seems like their minds are on the same wavelength, like sometimes they’re thinking the same thoughts.

 

So they eat breakfast for dinner, sitting at the table which is so small their legs are jammed against each other and Louis’ ankle is wedged in between Harry’s shins. They ask about each other’s days and end up having one of their endless discussions, this time about the merits of living in a big city versus living in a small city.

 

It brings up questions about their families, and a month ago Louis might’ve been hesitant to breach this topic because he knows how sensitive it is for Harry, but now that they’re so much more familiar with each other, he feels braver.

 

“Do you miss home?” Louis asks eventually, after watching Harry light up when talking about the aspects of small towns he finds endearing and attractive.

 

“Home?” Harry asks, stopping abruptly, smile slipping off his face. Oh, what Louis wouldn’t do to get that smile right back. He kind of wishes he could rewind time and maybe not ask that question, but there’s no going back now. The point of no return, in terms of questions to ask.

 

“Yeah, home. Illinois.”

 

He looks down at his plate which is empty now, because they’ve been talking for so long that they finished their dinner an hour ago. “Umm, I guess I do miss it, kind of. I dunno. It’s… It’s different than most people, I guess.”

 

Louis knows he’s prying. Still, he can’t help but ask. “You mean like, with your parents?”

 

He inhales sharply, letting his lungs deflate slowly after holding the breath in for an elongated moment. “Yes.”

 

“Do you ever visit them?”

 

“Haven’t seen them since I left for college. They pretty much just wanted me gone.”

 

Louis hums, pondering. What must it be like to not really have a family? Louis feels some of that same ache, from being so far away from his mum and his sisters, but even then he still has them. But Harry… Harry really doesn’t have anyone. “So you haven’t been back to Illinois since then?”

 

“Right.” He taps his nail on the edge of his dinner plate before pulling his hands together and settling them uneasily on his lap. “I miss the place but I don’t miss them. If I never see them again for the rest of my life, I’m fine with that. I know that’s sad but it’s the truth. They weren’t the best people.”

 

“I get it,” Louis tells him, feeling unrealistically proud of Harry for opening up. “That happens sometimes. It’s okay. You don’t need to see them if you don’t want to.”

 

Harry looks surprised. “Really?”

 

“What do you mean ‘really’? Of course, silly. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t believe it.”

 

“It’s just… People usually try to get me to reconnect with my parents, when they find out I haven’t spoken to them in years.”

 

Louis thinks of all the times people have probably told Harry  _ you may not like them, but they’re still your family _ .  _ Blood is thicker than water.  _ It’s toxic, considering the situation Louis can only imagine Harry was in. With his biological parents gone, he was adopted by a family that would never love him like he deserved. The poor kid had  _ nightmares _ , for god’s sake. He  _ still _  does.

 

Louis swallows thickly, considering. “Yeah, I get it. But if someone treats you like shit, you’re allowed to stay away from them even if they’re family. It’s okay.”

 

“Okay. Thank you.”

 

“Of course, kiddo.” And he can’t help but reach over the table to ruffle Harry’s hair as he gets up to do the dishes.

 

Harry laughs, looking secretly pleased, possibly? There might be a pale pink blush on his cheeks, but it’s hard to tell.

 

“You always call me kiddo.”

 

“I do,” Louis affirms, rolling his eyes. He gathers their plates and forks to make his way to the sink. “You  _ are _  younger than me.”

 

“By like a year,” Harry scoffs, still grinning.

 

“Two, actually.” What he doesn’t say is,  _ I feel protective of you.  _ “Besides, you like when I call you that.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Louis bites his lip to keep his smile back, getting to work on the dishes.

 

A little while later, after he cleans up the kitchen and starts the dishwasher, Louis joins his roommate in the living room. He finds Harry lying on his side on the couch, feet hanging off because he’s so damn tall, cuddling Clifford. Cliff is stretched out happily, eyes closed, paws resting near his chest as Harry rubs his tummy. The sight of them together is nothing short of  _ too cute for words, _  and it makes something unfamiliar in Louis’ chest ache. He doesn’t know what it means.

 

Harry lifts his legs so Louis can sit on the couch, and then sets them right back down on his lap. Louis wraps his grip around Harry’s ankle, feeling smooth skin. “Aren’t your feet cold?”

 

“Aren’t yours? You never wear socks.”

 

“Fair point.”

 

“But yes, now that you ask, they are cold.”

 

Louis huffs a laugh, rubbing Harry’s feet to warm them up. “So what are we watching tonight?”

 

They end up with  _ The Devil Wears Prada,  _ which is a classic. By the end of the movie, all three of them—Louis, Harry, and Clifford—are asleep in a messy pile of limbs.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


He wakes up to Harry’s screaming.

 

It isn’t out of the ordinary, but it’s still frightening enough to make his heart pound heavily in his chest, thrumming against his ribcage like it’s trying to burst out. He feels sick almost immediately, but jumps into action without hesitation. After weeks of this same situation, he knows what to do.

 

Louis gathers Harry in his arms, careful to give him room to breathe so he doesn’t feel trapped. Clifford is standing beside the couch, anxiously wagging his tail and wondering what’s going on. Obviously all the screaming and thrashing is setting him on edge.

 

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Louis soothes, rocking Harry back and forth gently. “It was just a nightmare. Just a bad dream. You’re okay.”

 

It takes a while until he stops screaming and bursts into wild, uncontained tears instead. Louis holds him tighter and strokes his back, feeling sick with the weight of all his grief. It’s physically painful to see Harry so upset like this.

 

“That’s it, that’s it, get it all out. Shh.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whimpers eventually, once he has calmed down enough to form words. His fingers are twisted in the fabric of Louis’ shirt as he clutches tightly and sobs into his neck, wetting Louis’ skin with warm tears. It’s more of the same; Louis is so used to this it’s frightening.

 

“Stop apologizing, you’re fine. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

 

Harry only cries in response so Louis takes it upon himself to heave him up and guide him to his bedroom, herding him towards the mattress on the floor.

 

“We should get you a real bed,” he muses absentmindedly, mostly to himself, as he rearranges Harry’s limbs and pulls the sheet up to cover him, tucking him in. Harry stares up at him with wide eyes glistening with tears, his skin blotchy and red from all the crying. He looks so innocent like this, and for the millionth time Louis wonders how anyone could ever hurt him.

 

_ He hurts me. Daddy hurts me. _

 

Louis sighs, running his fingers through Harry’s tangled curls before getting up to leave. What he doesn’t expect is Harry reaching out to grasp his wrist tightly, holding him there.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Stay. Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

 

Something twinges in his heart at Harry’s words, pulling on his heartstrings. “Alright…” Louis obliges, settling down awkwardly beside Harry on the bed but sitting upright. He feels kind of uneasy like this but decides just to go for it, pulling Harry partly on his lap and stroking his hair again. “Would you like to tell me about your dream?”

 

“It was the same,” Harry sighs, but it can’t hide the way he shivers, trembling enough that his hands shake noticeably. “Fire, smoke, burning… Screaming and no one hearing.”

 

“Is it like something that happened in real life?”

 

“Kind of. The, um. The burning is the same.”

 

Harry’s answer is ambiguous and confusing and Louis is hopelessly lost. They sit in silence for a while but it doesn’t feel right. Last night Louis had been reading about how to deal with nightmares but all of them were targeted towards parents and their children. One of the suggestions was to listen to the child tell his dream and to never discount it or brush it aside. And god, Louis is  _ trying _ …

 

So time passes and Louis doesn’t realize he’s doing this, but to break the silence he begins humming distraightly. As a musical person it comes easy to him, even though he hasn’t sang in months and hasn’t touched his guitar in even more than that. It makes him sad to think about how he gave up singing after he lost his job playing on odd nights at the bar to a small but attentive audience, all because of the stupid goddamn pictures.

 

He doesn’t notice he’s humming, but Harry does, and he sits up a little to inquire about it. “What’s that?”

 

“Huh? Oh.” His hands still in Harry’s hair as he ponders. “It’s a lullaby my mum used to sing to me.”

 

“Oh. It sounds really nice.”

 

Louis’ fingers fiddle with his curls again, softly combing through the tangled sections. He spots the bunny stuffed animal half covered by blankets and pulls it out, handing it to Harry who pulls it to his chest, snuggling his face in the soft material. “Would you like me to sing it to you? Would that help you fall asleep?”

 

He nods slowly, clutching the stuffed animal tighter and cuddling into the blankets like a child.

 

So Louis takes a deep breath and begins singing because there isn’t anything else to do. “Hush now my baby, hush now my love, the angels are watching from heaven above. They know that I love you, they know that it’s true. I’ll stay here beside you whatever you do. When I wake beside you, I feel like I shine, I wish you forever and ever be mine. A new day tomorrow when you open your eyes, let the sunshine in and all darkness dies…”

 

He sings it over and over again until Harry falls asleep just like that, curled up and squeezing a pink stuffed bunny to his chest. Louis resituates him, tucking the blankets up to his chin, and then kisses him on the forehead because it feels right. “Good night, H,” he sighs, even though Harry can’t hear him since he’s essentially dead to the world.

 

Louis considers staying with him in case he has any more nightmares but decides against it, shuffling to his own bedroom and collapsing on top of the quilt in exhaustion, falling asleep without further ado.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Before he broke up with his boyfriend, and before the pictures of him spread throughout campus, Louis used to go out with his friends almost every night and have fun.

 

It was usually a good time. He would party, get wasted, and act like a someone who had nothing to lose. He would mess around with guys during the in between time when he wasn’t dating someone, and it was great because there was never any real commitment. Even when he was in a relationship, it never lasted too long and almost always centered around sex.

 

The point is that Louis used to go out all the time, enjoying the freedom and liveliness of being young and unattached. And then the last relationship happened and really put a damper on things. Louis no longer felt like going out and he lost most of his friends anyways so it didn’t even matter. The only people who missed him were Liam and Niall.

 

Going out with them now, after so much has changed, feels starkly different. Especially with Harry there.

 

To start, Louis doesn’t feel like getting wasted. He hardly wants to drink at all, really. He drinks beer to placate the others but really doesn’t crave that warmth flowing through his veins anymore. It all seems so pointless, happiness contrived from alcohol. Couldn’t he have something real, for once in his life?

 

Besides, the warmth of alcohol isn’t enough anymore. There’s this cold chill beneath his skin that has been there for months and it just won’t go away, no matter what he does. The iciness is intangible, unable to be reached by physical means. He feels it in his soul, and nowadays not even the distraction of inebriation palliates the ache.

 

Harry seems to be following an opposite doctrine. His tenet is more about dismissing reality and failing to remember whatever it is that grieves him. He’s on his fourth drink and they haven’t even been here very long. Louis watches him warily from across the table but doesn’t comment on his excessive drinking. None of the others seem concerned.

 

Louis thinks back to the time Harry was crying in his room and drank an entire bottle of cherry wine by himself. He wonders if it’s a coping mechanism or even an actual addiction. Harry doesn’t drink regularly, as far as Louis can tell, but he’s still worried because there’s so much he doesn’t know.

 

Halfway through the night Harry says he isn’t feeling well and no one really pays him any mind except Louis. Isn’t that funny? Maybe he’s abnormally attuned to Harry’s feelings and wellbeing because they’ve been roommates for weeks now, or maybe he’s just perceptive and cares about others. Whatever it is, Louis slips out of the booth after Harry, feeling too worried and too sober for a Friday night.

 

He gets to the bathroom just in time to see Harry stumble into a stall and throw up into the toilet. The entire bathroom smells like puke, cheap cleaning supplies, and regret anyways and it makes Louis uncomfortably queasy. He waits until Harry is finished puking to call out his name.

 

“Harry, babe,” Louis sighs. Why is he always the one picking up the pieces? “We should probably get you home.”

 

Harry responds by dry-heaving into the toilet. Louis comes up behind him and rubs his back comfortingly, knowing from experience how much it sucks to be sick, especially when you know it’s your own fault. There’s no need to be cross with him; Harry is having a hard enough time as it is.

 

Once he’s pretty sure Harry won’t get sick again, he helps him up off his knees and props him up against the wall. Harry moans in distress, swaying dangerously and dropping his head to Louis’ shoulder.

 

“It’s alright, H. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

 

With impressive strength and a lot of resolve, Louis manages to get Harry all the way out of the bar and on the sidewalk outside, leaning against him for support. They aren’t very far from their apartment so he decides to leg it, forgoing a taxi since it wouldn’t be worth it. Harry is basically deadweight at this point but he thinks they can make it if he tries hard enough.

 

They arrive at the apartments with minimal struggle, but from there it’s all downhill. Louis practically drags Harry up the three flights of stairs and by the end of it he’s so exhausted and pissed off, he considers giving up and leaving Harry on the floor of the stairwell. That would serve him right for getting so wasted he can’t even stand up straight… But Louis isn’t cruel.

 

So he doesn’t give up, and manages to haul Harry inside. He deposits him on the couch and sends a quick text to Liam saying they got home safely, because communication is important and he doesn’t want anyone to worry. Then he fills a glass with water and forces Harry to drink it.

 

“You have to.”

 

“I don’t wanna,” Harry refuses, very childishly crossing his arms in a sloppy manner and turning his nose away at the sight of the glass of water, much like that night all those weeks ago when Louis had him sitting at the kitchen table, begging him to drink water to sober up.

 

Louis sighs and groans like a jaded parent trying to get their child to eat vegetables at dinner to no avail. He knows from experience that Harry reverts back to childish behavior when he’s drunk—he has seen it before. It appears to be a common theme, always acting younger, like a child. He likes being called baby and kiddo, for god’s sake. He definitely has a daddy kink, doesn’t he?

 

_ He hurts me. Daddy hurts me. _

 

“Fuck,” Louis groans, setting the cup down on the table so forcefully, half the water spills out. The sound resonates throughout the otherwise quiet room, save for Harry’s breathy inhales and exhales. His voice comes out annoyed and angry. Those two stupid intrusive and disturbing sentences have been haunting him ever since Harry admitted them so many weeks ago, and he has yet to inquire about them and now is definitely not the time.

 

He knows immediately he made a mistake by raising his voice. Harry is backing away as much as he can while sitting on the couch, and he has his arms wrapped around himself like a protective shield. His eyes are wide, innocent, and worried. Because Louis is angry and he thinks it’s targeted towards him.

 

It’s not, of course. Why would he be angry at Harry? But Harry doesn’t know that. And he’s currently sinking into himself like he’s afraid Louis is going to  _ hurt him. _

 

_ Shit,  _ Louis thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud which is definitely for the best. He doesn’t know what to do but it’s too late anyways because there’s this distant look in Harry’s eyes. Suddenly Louis remembers something he read recently, from a journal written by an abuse survivor. His recollection is vague but the sentiment is the same.

 

Earlier, he had been scrolling through blog posts on a darker side of the Internet, perhaps from five or ten years ago because there was little information on the topic Louis was researching, and everything interesting was slightly outdated. Some of the journal entries he stumbled upon were so disturbing they made him sick.

 

_ “He wants to know why sometimes in the face of conflict I neither fight nor flee, but instead go disconcertingly mute, eyes locked ahead like some sad dead thing looking off into the empty of its own future.” _

 

And then, on a later page:

 

_ “Children who have no escape from the hands of that harm learn to die over and over again.” _

 

So lately he has been reading up on post traumatic stress disorder because it seems like something Harry might have and he wants to know as much about it as he can in case he can help Harry. Right now as he’s remembering all the medical pages he has skimmed over the past few days, the blog posts and the stories and everything that comprises his current understanding.

 

Clearly, he was really stupid just now to raise his voice and show frustration by slamming the glass on the table because it’s very obvious now that something there triggered Harry and it’s all Louis’ fault.

 

He scrambles for some sort of informational purchase in his brain that may allow him to figure out what to do to help Harry, but he comes up with nothing. Just those sad stories about people and their trauma, their nightmares, their fear.

 

Harry is looking at him now, or in his direction at least, but it feels as though he’s looking past him, straight through him. His eyes are glazed over, his face impassive, as he sits catatonically and hardly moves except to breathe. It would be much more manageable if he had run away screaming or even collapsed into a puddle of tears, but this… Louis doesn’t know how to handle this.

 

So he pulls out his phone and searches the Internet because he doesn’t know what else to do. He clicks on the first link and bites his thumb nervously while the page loads.

 

The first step is to move the person who is dissociating to a safe space, but Louis doesn’t know where else he can bring Harry that is safer or calmer than right here, so he moves on. Next is to dim the lights to ease overstimulation, so he turns the overhead light off in favor of the small lamp on the table beside the couch. Harry is still sitting there, completely spaced out, his face blank. It worries Louis to no end and he scrambles for a remedy, a solution.

 

So he continues on and moves to the third step which is to offer Harry sensory items. The website suggests a stress ball to occupy his hands, or even a fuzzy sweater. Louis nearly runs to Harry’s bedroom to retrieve the stuffed bunny, and brings it back in record time. He shoves it in Harry’s hands and watches worriedly as he clutches it loosely, hardly even reacting.

 

One of the other suggestions says “use physical touch when you know it’s okay to do so” but  he doesn’t know if it’s okay. He and Harry have never talked about this before but hugging him typically seems to help when he has nightmares so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad right now.

 

Physical touch is the last piece of advice given by that specific website so Louis decides to sift through the second link. This one says most of the same suggestions, but includes a counterpart on what to say. It warns not to yell, which seems obvious, and suggests speaking clearly and simply, starting with the person’s name, to tell them the time and where they are, and then to just talk to them about topics that are either calming or stimulating depending on what the person needs.

 

“Harry,” Louis tries, keeping his voice soft, warm, and even-toned. He sits down beside him but is careful not to touch in case the physical contact startles him even more. “Harry honey, do you know where you are?”

 

There’s no verbal response but his gaze follows Louis’ movement and eventually settles on Louis’ eyes. There’s a look of absence and vacancy on his visage and it’s horrifying to see, like his body is just an empty shell and his mind is faraway.

 

“Harry,” Louis says again, this time just to say his name and try to smile sweetly even though it’s hard to move past a grimace. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. Everything’s okay. We’re at home right now, in the living room. You’re safe here.”

 

It doesn’t get better, even after Louis talks to him for a long while about mindless, meaningless things like their plans for the weekend or what they had for breakfast this morning. It definitely doesn’t help that Harry is drunk already, inhibiting him even more. Eventually Louis gives up but he doesn’t know what to do because he doesn’t want to leave Harry alone.

 

In his mind the only option is to bring Harry into his own bedroom and he doesn’t think much of it until they’re actually there, together. Harry lets Louis move him like a doll, maneuvering him onto the mattress. It makes Louis ache to see how vulnerable Harry is when he’s dissociating, because it must happen a lot when he’s around his boyfriend who  _ hurts _  him, and it’s so painfully easy to take advantage of Harry right now. Anyone could do anything to him and he would just go with it, no protest at all.

 

Louis doesn’t know what to do so he turns out the light and prays it’ll all be over in the morning. He nudges Harry onto his side and then lies down beside him, wondering if he should hold him.

 

In due time, he gives into that ugly desire within himself to soothe Harry by physical touch, and wraps his arms around his middle, hugging him from behind and pressing his face into his neck.

 

The thing is, Harry doesn’t react at all. He stays still and unmoving and only sniffles a little bit. He doesn’t even flinch away, like he would if he was at all lucid. He’s so compliant and unresponsive and it causes tears to prickle in the corners of Louis’ eyes, and then he’s fucking  _ crying, _  with his arms around Harry, his hands clutching Harry’s, their fingers interlaced and resting on Harry’s stomach. The tears drip down Louis’ face and probably wet the back of Harry’s neck because there’s absolutely no space between the two of them, but even then Harry doesn’t react at all.

 

Like he’s a doll, easily moved and manipulated. Like he’s a shell, hollow and empty.

 

Not a person.

 

A doll.

 

A shell.

 

Louis is still crying as he falls asleep. Harry is still staring at the wall.

 

 


	2. The Loving

 

 

 

Movement is what wakes him up.

 

Squirming, and then thrashing.

 

As soon as he realizes what’s happening, Louis breaks his hold on Harry and pulls his arms away from him, giving him space.

 

Harry is still asleep, his eyes squeezed shut tightly like he’s in pain, and his muscles are taught and tense. He shifts back and forth, fingers splaying and then clenching into fists repeatedly, so much it looks achingly uncomfortable. His legs kicks out and hits Louis in the shin, hard enough to make a bruise. It’s unexpected so Louis makes a noise of distress before sitting up.

 

He needs to wake him. So he starts shaking his shoulder gently like he learned to do after endless nights of helping Harry through his nightmares. It doesn’t work this time and Louis gets worried. Harry is still thrashing around and if he doesn’t stop soon he’s going to hurt himself or Louis.

 

“Harry, c’mon, wake up,” Louis mutters, squeezing his shoulders hard enough to pinch him. That doesn’t work in waking him up, but it does make him stop thrashing around so much.

 

The noises of distress leaving Harry’s closed lips turn more into panicked whimpers and Louis holds him tighter now that he isn’t kicking so much, because this is something he’s more familiar with, something he knows how to help.

 

“C’mon H, it’s alright. Wake up, c’mon…”

 

He continues moaning through his lips pressed tightly together and he’s so tense, jaw clenched so tightly Louis wonders if he’s biting his tongue, and then wonders if it hurts, and that makes him upset, so he stops thinking of it and holds him tighter, rocking him like a baby.

 

_It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright. Come on Harry, wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up…_

 

All at once Harry’s body relaxes and Louis breathes a short sigh of relief even though he’s startled at how sudden it is. He hugs Harry close and smiles into his neck, finally eased and mollified. When he moves his legs his notices the feeling of something warm and wet but doesn’t think much of it, too preoccupied with making sure Harry is okay.

 

His eyes flutter open slowly and he squints in the early morning light. The sun hasn’t risen yet but it’s getting closer to breaching the horizon and the room is dark but not colorless. Everything is in shades of indigo.

 

The moment Harry realizes he isn’t alone is marked by the way he turns completely rigid and still, his eyes wide.

 

“Where am I?” he asks shakily, pulling away just enough that Louis finally realizes what the wetness is.

 

Harry realizes at the same time because his eyes widen even more and he looks mortified.

 

“Is that- Did I…”

 

“Shh, c’mere, it’s okay,” Louis soothes, and he should be more grossed out but he isn’t, really, because he’s realizing just now that he cares so much about Harry and would do a lot just for him to be happy, to be safe.

 

Harry is having none of it. He scrambles out of bed but gets tangled in the sheets which are soaked with urine. He looks panicked and horrified, completely lucid and coherent now which is a great contrast from last night’s inebriation and dissociation. Louis is glad he’s back to normal, but not glad he’s so frightened and unnerved.

 

“Wh- What happened?” Harry asks, and then he thinks better of it as he flails and tries to get his feet on the floor. “Actually wait please don’t tell me, oh my god, fuck, I need to, ugh- I need to kill myself, this is just- _Fuck_ -”

 

“Don’t say that,” Louis warns, trying to get a good grip on his wrist to pull him back into bed. Or at least to stop him from running away. “Don’t you dare say that.”

 

He pulls his arm away quickly and manages to get to a steady position on the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut and slowly lets his hands fall to his crotch where he tentatively touches the fabric of the jeans he’s still wearing from going out last night and he winces when he must feel their dampness. In all honesty Louis doesn’t give a fuck Harry wet himself when he was having a nightmare, but Harry is so caught up on it and he looks like he would swan dive off a building if given the chance.

 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, this is why I can’t- oh my god. This is why- This is why I can’t…” he trails off, looking devastated and humiliated and like he was really serious when he said he wanted to _kill himself._ And Louis- Louis can’t have that.

 

So he stands despite his exhaustion and pulls Harry into a hug before he can escape. Still he tries to break free but Louis won’t let him.

 

“It’s okay, it’s fine, H. You’re fine.”

 

“No, Lou- Please, I can’t. Oh my god. I want to die. I need to-”

 

He doesn’t finish his sentence explaining what he needs to do, because he breaks free of Louis’ grasp, bursts into tears, and frantically dashes out of the room, down the hall and to the bathroom. Louis is so shocked he doesn’t do anything for a moment, before deciding to give Harry a little bit of space and breathing room to calm down.

 

Then it sinks in about what Harry said early, about _killing himself,_ and Louis’ heart thuds messily in his chest as he hurries down the hall after him. The door to the bathroom is closed and Louis knocks on it worriedly to announce his presence before twisting the doorknob, glad it isn’t locked.

 

The water is running and the shower curtain is closed, with Harry presumably behind it. His clothes are discarded in a disorganized pile on the floor.

 

“Harry?”

 

“I’m fine, _please_ go away.”

 

Louis swallows thickly, unwilling to leave the room but not knowing what to say. He settles on, “There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”

 

Harry scoffs before laughing maniacally, sounding like he’s on the verge of a real breakdown. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed?” he repeats incredulously, laughing so it echoes off the tiles of the shower, worrying Louis even more because clearly he’s very unstable right now. “I just pissed myself like a toddler, for fuck’s sake.”

 

“It happens,” Louis rushes to assure. “It’s common with nightmares. It’s okay, Harry.”

 

“It’s fucking _not okay_ -”

 

“Harry, please listen to me-”

 

“Oh my fucking god, for the love of fuck, shut _up_.”

 

That gets Louis to close his mouth really quickly, jamming his jaw closed, his teeth clashing so hard they make a clanging noise. He doesn’t know what to do, especially when Harry is mad at him, so he stands there staring at the cheap, ugly shower curtain with a gaudy seashell and starfish pattern, his hands falling helplessly to his sides. He remains obediently silent.

 

When his mind catches up with the hurt he’s experiencing in his heart, he realizes he’s being stupid for feeling so offended by Harry snapping at him. He storms forward, pulling the shower curtain aside to get Harry’s attention, but doesn’t let his eyes wander away from his face. There’s no way he would betray Harry’s trust by looking anywhere else and invading his privacy. Not that he would want to look at Harry, anyways. He may be attractive and kind but that doesn’t mean Louis has to feel any certain specific way about him.

 

Especially when… Especially when the situation is so bad. When Harry is damaged, and needs nothing more than a person to look out for him. A friend.

 

So Louis gives his coldest, most unmoving glare and sets out with an icy tone. His voice is stern and paternal and he already feels bad about it even before he gets the words out. But it’s important. “I’m going to wait in here with you until you finish your shower because I don’t want you to hurt yourself. And don’t you dare talk to me like that again when I’m just trying to help.”

 

Harry glowers at him but doesn’t make another sound or movement. Louis takes that as confirmation enough and yanks the shower curtain closed before slumping down on the closed toilet lid.

 

He’s exhausted, sad, and feels like shit. Perhaps not the best way to start the day.

 

By the time the water shuts off, all the fight has left Louis and he just feels melancholic. Harry must feel the same, if the way he sniffles sadly from inside the shower is any indication. When he pulls the curtain back and asks for a towel, it’s obvious he has been crying.

 

Louis hands him his towel from the rack and looks down at his lap again while Harry dries off. In a moment the curtain is pulled back completely and Harry steps out with the towel wrapped around him, looking crestfallen.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, shifting nervously, gaze on his bare feet.

 

“I am too. It’s okay.” He shouldn’t give in too early but he can’t help it. Harry doesn’t deserve any of this.

 

“I just- I dunno. I’m so embarrassed and I feel like shit.”

 

“I feel like shit too. And please don’t feel embarrassed, H, please.” _You’ve been through so much,_ Louis wants to add, but he can’t work up the courage. _You’re so brave. There’s no reason to be ashamed._

 

Harry worries his lip between his teeth in contemplation and doesn’t respond. Louis thinks about his wet bedsheets and holds back a sigh, remembering the laundry he’ll have to do today. He has lecture at one o’clock, too, and he doesn’t want to leave Harry alone. But that’s a problem for later.

 

“Let’s get you dried off, yeah? And then maybe we can go back to bed? It’s not even six yet.”

 

“Okay,” Harry sniffles, standing there helplessly.

 

Louis reaches out and rubs at the part of the towel covering his shoulders in an effort to dry him off. Harry stands there cooperatively without any objections. Eventually Louis speeds up the process by taking the towel from his shoulders and drying Harry off more efficiently, nakedness be damned. He doesn’t look, doesn’t pay attention to any of it. It’s so unsexy, it’s mechanical. Possibly even parental, the way he rubs the towel over Harry’s bare skin until it’s dry. The way Harry lifts his arms with a freakish sort of docility and is willing to be moved like a doll.

 

“Alright, H?”

 

“Yeah. Thank you.”

 

“Of course.” He grasps Harry’s hand and leads him out of the bathroom, tugging him to his own room this time since he still needs to wash his sheets. “Let’s get you dressed, and then you can sleep.”

 

Harry stands beside the bed and doesn’t make a move to get any clothes, so Louis does it for him, rummaging through the dresser for something comfortable. He pulls out a pair of pajama shorts and a soft t-shirt before turning to Harry who’s shivering in his nakedness, curled in on himself like he does so often.

 

Louis tries handing the clothes to him, but he doesn’t reach out to receive them so Louis sighs and dresses him too. He pulls the shirt over his head, guiding his arms through the sleeves, before sinking down to his knees and helping Harry pull the shorts on, tugging them up his thighs and over the curve of his bum to rest on his hips. His skin feels cold to the touch, but soft in a way Louis has never experienced before.

 

It’s crazy and stupid, way too intimate for roommates, for friends. Louis is taking care of him like a parent would care for a child and that’s a weird complex to have, because Louis likes Harry and finds him attractive and they’re friends for god’s sake, so what the fuck is going on? He feels… He feels confused. He doesn’t know what he feels.

 

“Alright?” he asks again, forcing the weird, vaguely disturbing thoughts from his mind. Everything is confusing; everything is disconcerting.

 

He nods, tucking his chin down to his chest submissively, like he’s ashamed. Louis can’t even begin to imagine what he must be feeling right now though.

 

Louis swallows thickly because sometimes Harry acts so much like a child that it’s confusing to witness. The submission, the dependency. The disturbing lack of autonomy. “Okay. Bedtime now, yeah?”

 

He nods again but doesn’t show any indication of moving again so Louis nudges him towards the mattress on the floor, making an internal promise to himself he’ll go looking for a bedframe for Harry soon. When Harry is lying down on the mattress, Louis pulls the blankets up and tucks them under his chin like he always does. Harry has the bunny clutched to his chest and his eyelashes are fluttering sleepily now as he blinks slowly.

 

“How come you aren’t embarrassed to have me dress you?”

 

He didn’t mean to ask, but it just came out and there’s no way to take the words back now that they’re hanging in the air like a mistake. Like an intrusion.

 

Harry doesn’t seem perturbed. “I’m not ashamed of my body.”

 

Louis hums in thoughtful response, considering. Then he can’t help but think of what he has read before about sexual abuse victims, and how they are often comfortable being naked or don’t see anything wrong with it. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but most people are more modest. It’s another box to check off, another similarity between lists and each piece of evidence of Harry’s past makes Louis feel sicker and sicker.

 

“You like when people take care of you.” It may be a non sequitur but it isn’t a question.

 

Louis knows this to be true, knows it in the way that Harry likes warm blankets, stuffed animals, bubble baths, intimate poetry, platonic cuddling, and on and on and on. Louis knows this to be true because he saw it in the way Harry flirted with his abusive ex-boyfriend Roman, the way he tilted his chin down submissively and looked up at him with his eyes purposefully wide as a doe’s, the way his shoulders curved forward with the relaxed weight of satisfaction as they walked from the bar because he knew he was getting exactly what he wanted. And that’s… That’s… Louis doesn’t know what that is. Bad, maybe. Awful.

 

“And you like to take care of people.” Also not a question. Just a statement of fact. Harry is challenging and accepting all at once. Like he’s begging Louis to confirm what he already knows to be true. And why does it matter?

 

There’s a beat of heavy silence. Louis is in no rush to break it, no matter how awkward. He doesn’t want to be the one to say what they’re both thinking.

 

Harry is the one who says it. “So I guess we compliment each other,” he finishes off, eyes flitting away nervously. And he’s… Louis is confused, because how can he be such an enigma? Confident and insecure all at once, in both the best and worst ways. It makes him ache.

 

“Right.” Louis sets his hand on his hip, observing him. His dark, girlish eyelashes and strong masculine jawline. The way his skin is still blotchy from all the crying and his lips are puffy and pink from the shower and all the biting his does when he’s nervous. He’s still shaking like he always is, and Louis wonders if the trembling will ever go away or if it’s something Harry will just have to deal with forever. He exhales a long sigh. “I guess we do.”

 

Harry watches him leave the room.

  
  


…

  
  


They go to Louis’ chemistry lecture together because he’s afraid to leave him alone.

 

Two offhanded comments that hint at suicidal thoughts are enough to make him worry. Harry is reluctant to go, and doesn’t understand why Louis wants him there, so Louis promises him they’ll take a trip to the bookstore afterwards to make up for it.

 

Walking into class with Harry is strange because it’s immediately obvious he’s an outsider who doesn’t belong. He looks like a stereotypical art student with his high-waisted jeans and white t-shirt with the words _women are smarter_ printed on it. He’s wearing his pink converse today, the ones that look like they’re about the fall apart, and he has his thick-rimmed glasses resting in his messy hair. He has his sketchbook in his arms and there’s charcoal smudged all over the side of his right hand. Sometimes Louis finds it baffling how someone who is so messy inside can pull himself together and look like he’s collected, even if he’s really not.

 

Meanwhile the rest of the class is dressed in jeans and hoodies. There’s ten minutes until lecture starts and still everyone looks up when they enter the room, their eyes landing on Harry. Louis heads over to the professor, who is standing beside the podium, to introduce Harry.

 

Louis greets him cordially and then asks if his _art student friend_ Harry can sit in on the lecture. The prof looks confused and skeptical but happy to have another person listen to his frankly boring lectures on chemical structures.

 

“Thinking of transferring into the major?” he asks, his question directed at Harry.

 

Harry obviously wasn’t expecting to be addressed directly, so his eyes widen slightly and he shuffles halfway behind Louis for a moment before relaxing and laughing a little, making some joke about becoming a chemist.

 

“There is an art to it, you know,” the professor says passionately. “Who knows, you may find you like the subject.”

 

Harry nods and gives him a warm, charming smile, joking with him some more before Louis pulls him to a seat. Instead of going to his typical spot in the middle of the second row, he guides Harry to the edge of the aisle and sits down there. Whoever sits here normally will have to move, no big deal.

 

One of Louis’ lab partners comes in a few minutes later, cradling her baby to her chest. Louis admires her a lot for going pursuing a chemistry degree when she has a little one to take care of, and he never minds when she brings her to class. Usually she has the professor hold the baby as he lectures, so she can take notes. It’s cute and the professor likes babies so it works.

 

“Louis!” he calls out, once he has the baby in his arms. “How does your friend over there feel about babies?”

 

Louis looks to Harry, laughing a little, and then feeling his heart warm when Harry’s face breaks out into a real smile. “I love babies.”

 

The professor looks pleased, and when the mother of the baby says it’s okay, he hands her over to Harry, who cradles her to her chest.

 

“Mind holding her for the class period? It’ll give you something to do.”

 

“I don’t mind at all.”

 

“Perfect.” The professor turns to Louis, smiling. “I like your friend.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, sitting back in his seat. Harry coos at the baby and tickles her until she laughs, the sound pleasant and joyful like little bells.

 

All in all, it’s a weird day.

  
  


…

  
  


Later, at the bookstore, Harry goes off on a rant about how much he loves babies. It has been the topic of conversation ever since they left lecture at the end of the hour, but as soon as they enter the bookstore the words just spill animatedly out of Harry like he couldn’t stop himself from saying them even if he wanted to.

 

He has to be quiet, though, because the bookstore has a tranquil atmosphere that would be disturbed by conversation at a normal volume. This means that Harry has to lean close to Louis as he whispers breathily, conveying his excitement even as he abides by the quiet norm.

  
“They’re just _so_ cute, Louis. I want twenty of them. Right now.”

 

“Right now?”

 

“Yes, right now. Twenty of them.”

 

“Maybe you should start with one,” Louis offers, thumbing at the poetry books, though the earlier sight of Harry with a little girl cradled in his arms makes something swirl in Louis’ tummy. Even with all the trauma, Harry would make a good parent. Kind and sweet. Supportive. Loving.

 

“There’s no way. I need them all right now.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing quietly. He doesn’t respond in favor of pulling a book down from the shelf, the complete collection of Emily Dickinson’s poetry.

 

And like, it’s weird. Because it feels so normal now, when Harry is laughing and joking around, talking so casually about his future as if he wasn’t just insinuating ending it this morning. As if last night—the inebriation and the dissociation, the _vacancy_ —had never happened.

 

There’s a coffee shop attached to the bookstore so they order two mugs of lemon tea and an apricot pastry to share. Harry curls up in his seat with his knees pulled to his chest and his cup resting in his hands to warm them. They sit in silence for a long time, when Louis reads the beginning chapters of the book he just bought and Harry stares out the window, lost in thought.

 

“You sang to me,” he remarks suddenly, completely out of the blue, as if just remembering.

 

Louis marks his page with the ribbon sewn into the spine, sliding it between the pages before closing the book completely. “I did,” he agrees easily, though he’s eyeing Harry wondering where he’ll go with this.

 

“It helped me fall asleep.” And the admission is so unexpected, Louis considers he dreamed it.

 

“Did it? That’s good.”

 

“You never sing, though. Even when we’re just… Even when it’s just you. Why don’t you sing more often?” Harry asks.

 

Louis stares down at the cover of his book, wondering if Harry knows he hit a sore spot, or if he’s just blindly feeling around in the dark and has no idea how delicate and tricky this is. Could it really be a coincidence, Harry asking Louis something so personal?

 

So he leaves it simple, commenting, “I used to sing a lot.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Are you surprised?”

 

“No. You have a lovely voice.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Why did you stop singing, then?”

 

Louis shrugs noncommittally, not wanting to talk about it.

 

Why would he want to talk about it? The entire situation was, and still is, painful. It’s not like he can’t sing anymore, it’s just that it reminds him of what he can’t have. Call him dramatic, but he loved playing every so often at the bar and having people come the nights he performed, specifically because _he_ was there. It was so great, something he really loved, being able to cover songs and even perform some of his own.

 

Nowadays, singing just reminds him of what he can’t have because of what happened. It pisses him off and makes him sick all the same, and guilty in a weird way. He’ll never regret his sexuality or even taking photos of himself in general, but he definitely regrets sending those pictures to his boyfriend.

 

And yeah, maybe he shouldn’t let something so stupid like that dictate whether or not he enjoys a hobby he loves, but he can’t help it. Singing and playing guitar are activities attached to too many bad feelings and he’s hopelessly unable to see himself partaking in any sort of music within the distant future.

 

So Harry complimenting his singing is strange because he hasn’t sung in months, not even casually to the radio or in the shower or anything. But he sang for Harry last night because Harry _asked him to…_

 

“Will you sing to me again, then?”  
  


“You really want me to?”

 

Harry mumbles something but Louis doesn’t catch it.

 

“What was that?”

 

His cheeks pinken slightly and Louis wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been gazing at him so intently. “Um, yeah.”

 

Louis bites his lip, considering. “I mean, I guess if you really want me to, I can.”

 

Harry nods and doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s embarrassed. Louis is too.

 

They go back to what they were doing before Harry said anything at all. While Harry gazes out the window with a distant look on his face, Louis stares at the page of his book and reads the same sentence over and over again without realizing it, because his mind is preoccupied with worries for his roommate. In the beginning, he hadn’t known how bad things were.

 

As time passes it’s becoming more and more apparent that Harry is hiding a lot of suffering beneath the surface. With near perfect concealment, he disguises everything within shadow.

  
  


…

  
  


Later in the evening, they’re sitting on the couch together. They do this often, and have been for weeks now. It’s definitely a habit.

 

Harry is fresh out of the shower—his second for the day, although the incident from the morning is probably best left forgotten. His hair is wet, and darker from the dampness, with loose curls forming as it dries. His skin is pale, eyes sunken, yet lips pink as ever. The oversized t-shirt he’s wearing is worn and incredibly soft to the touch when Louis brushes up against it; they’re sitting so close together that this is a thing that happens.

 

“Tired?” Louis asks, only after Harry’s head has dropped to his shoulder, post-yawn. It feels warm and unbelievably comfortable to be nestled into the couch like this, pressed up against each other.

 

“Mhm…”

 

“You should go to bed then, yeah?”

 

He makes a noise of disgruntled disagreement, and when he speaks it sounds like a whine: “But you promised to sing to me.”

 

Louis just barely resists rolling his eyes, feeling a little disappointed because he had been hoping Harry would forget and he wouldn’t have to sing. A sigh escapes his lips before he can catch himself. He feels bad almost immediately, when he looks at Harry and sees how upset he looks… almost self-loathing.

 

So Louis pats his knee in encouragement and says, “Go get ready for bed and I’ll meet you in your room.”

 

The readiness to which Harry follows orders is slightly worrying. He heads off to the bathroom to brush his teeth and Louis wanders through the hallway for a moment, feeling vaguely sick with nerves. He had been fine singing to him the other day because it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but now that he _knows_ he’s going to sing, and _share a part of himself that is so personal,_ he feels dizzy.

 

Louis is sitting on the edge of the bed when Harry enters the room, looking sleepy and childlike and adorable. The big t-shirt falls to mid-thigh and Louis can only hope he’s wearing shorts beneath.

 

Harry approaches the bed and clambers onto it, crawling forward and squirming beneath the covers. Louis waits patiently as he gets situated, feeling awkward and completely unsure of what to do. After a moment he looks down to find big green eyes staring back up at him expectantly and he sucks in a deep breath, deciding just to get it over with.

 

“Do you have a song preference?”

 

“A lullaby.”

 

Louis nods, swallowing quickly. The hesitation gives Harry time to scoot closer and nuzzle his face into the side of Louis’ leg, since Louis is sitting up beside him. His big hand clutches at the fabric of Louis’ sweatpants. Conceding, Louis slides his fingers into Harry’s hair and strokes gently.

 

He begins to sing, and everything else falls away.

  
  


…

  
  


Harry falls asleep quickly.

 

Louis suspects falling asleep isn’t the problem; the nightmares are the problem. Still, he feels accomplished when he looks down at Harry who is practically clinging to his leg, his big hand squeezing Louis’ thigh even in his sleep. His eyes are closed, face languid, everything at ease. Peaceful.

 

It’s a bummer to have to leave him when he seems so comfortable, like he finally feels _safe._ Guilt washes over Louis as he pries Harry’s hand off his thigh and carefully detaches himself, retreating to his own bedroom.

 

It’s easier this way.

 

At least that’s what he tells himself.

  
  


…

  
  


As time passes, Louis becomes strikingly aware of the fact that Harry is a creature of tendency and pattern.

 

He has many habits. Some of them involve Louis.

 

For example: he rarely sleeps during the night, and Louis assumes this is because he’s more inclined to get bad dreams at night. So Harry falling asleep in the apartment at random times in order to make up for his lack of nighttime rest becomes the norm. He naps on the couch, at the kitchen table, and on the floor in front of the TV. Rarely in his own bed.

 

Louis finds him like this when he returns home from classes. This is nothing new. Sometimes Clifford is cuddled up with him and sometimes he isn’t.

 

For example: he has a routine of watching TV before bed. Not that he actually goes to sleep afterwards, but it seems he and Louis have a set bedtime which is around ten o’clock—insanely early for two college students. They sit close together on the couch and don’t really speak much unless Harry initiates the conversation, which is rare.

 

Louis isn’t naive enough to think that Harry actually sleeps when he retires to his room for the night, but he hopes. In reality, Harry works on his various art pieces for hours in a certain silence that can only be a mixture of concentration and fear.

 

For example: whenever he’s sad he gets drunk. It doesn’t matter if they’re going out with friends or not; Harry will drink alone if he has to.

 

For example: whenever he’s drunk he gets horny. This is just a guess on Louis’ part but it makes sense, because after consuming enough alcohol to make his eyes a little dazed and his complexion a little flushed, he dresses in tight jeans and some sort of ridiculous-looking but inexplicably sexy top and Louis catches him by the door just before he leaves, wanting to ask where he’s going but never actually doing it.

 

He doesn’t need to ask because Harry always returns in the middle of the night or early in the morning, crying. Sometimes there are bruises. Sometimes there is blood. Sometimes there are nothing but tears.

 

It’s safe to assume these are the nights Harry visits Roman. When he’s sad, drunk, horny, and _reckless._ Self-destructive, perhaps. It would make sense.

 

For example: _he hurts me. Daddy hurts me._ He’s a creature of habit. Why else would he go back time and time again to the very person who hurts him? Why else would he return to his _abuser?_   
  


Yet somehow, despite it all, through the endless hours of darkness and fear, pain and torture, daydreams and nightmares… there is happiness. Like one little flickering flame in an infinite darkness. Weak but hopeful, tragic in a sanguine way. Like fighting the odds, and going back time and time again even when the result is _always_ the same.

 

For example: Harry sings when he’s happy.

 

Louis only knows this because one day he came home and Harry wasn’t passed out on the couch, but instead in the kitchen baking cookies. And while he stirred the ingredients together in glass mixing bowl, he hummed a mindless tune. And then—he sang.

 

When Louis asked him about what had made him so cheerful, Harry only shrugged and pressed his lips tighter together. Refusing to give an answer.

 

Maybe there wasn’t one.

  
  


…

  
  


The combination of sadness, drinking, and horniness eventually becomes a blinding issue.

 

It’s Tuesday night when Louis finally breaks and says something about it. Seated on the armchair he rarely uses anymore, he’s typing a lab report on his laptop and hating life because he would much rather be doing almost anything else.

 

Harry emerges from his room smelling of wine and looking sad. Perhaps more sad than usual. But the wine isn’t a good sign and neither are the skinny jeans. He lifts his arms up to style his hair, peering into the mirror hanging in the foyer, and his shirt rides up. Thus a strip of lace is visible above the waistline of his jeans. Lingerie just like Louis noticed weeks ago when he bent over to put on his shoes.

 

Not good. He’s visiting Roman, Louis presumes, because that’s really the only logical explanation. Not that Harry is logical, but he’s definitely predictable. Louis already knows exactly how this night will end. If he doesn’t step in and say something, that is.

 

So Louis’ measly effort at confrontation doesn’t go very well at all. He makes an attempt at appearing casual and asks Harry where he’s going. Harry gives an inconclusive answer, something to the effect of _I’m going out._

 

Louis asks so awkwardly, he kind of wants to die as soon as he forces the words from his lips. “Are you… Are you going to see him?”

 

“Yes,” Harry snaps, terse and irritated. Sad, drunk, probably horny, and now _annoyed._ Add it to the list.

 

“Oh.” He has no good excuse for keeping Harry here, no good argument to compel him to stay. He feels so foolish when he says, “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to stay in with me and maybe watch a movie?”

 

Harry scowls at him, which is truthfully unexpected. He may be exasperated by Louis’ antics but usually he’s never infuriated enough to be so _cold._

 

“Why are you so obsessed with keeping me away from Roman?”

 

Louis gapes. He hadn’t known he had been that transparent, though in hindsight his distaste for the awful human being is more than obvious. And now Louis is sitting here thinking, how can he not see it? How can he not see how bad Roman is for him? Maybe he sees it and he just doesn’t care.

 

“What?” Louis’ voice sounds affronted as it leaves his mouth, but it’s weak in a way too, like even the words know he’s lying about the incredulity. “I’m not- Why would you think that?”

 

“Whenever I talk about him you get all weird,” Harry accuses, folding his arms over his chest. He’s still scowling but now looks more petulant like a child and it’s weird but this is a thing that happens when he’s drunk, and god, how is Louis supposed to deal with this when Harry is drunk? “And whenever I go out to see him you try so hard to get me to stay here with you. Do you like me or something? Are you _jealous?”_

 

“Wh- what?” No. Louis does not like Harry as anything more than a friend, at least that’s what he has decided to tell himself, and god damn it, this situation is about so much _more_ than that, anyways. Louis is trying to keep Harry safe, for fuck’s sake. “No, H, that’s not it. What the fuck. I’m just- He _hurts_ you, Harry. Why the hell do you keep seeing him?”

 

“I love him,” Harry argues with conviction. Then, “He loves me.”

 

_I’m only sleeping with him because I’m afraid if I say no he won’t love me anymore._

 

God, Louis is just… Louis is just furious. He doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Harry is so desperate to be loved by someone, by anyone, that he will return to a monster time and time again, to offer up his body as some sort of peace treaty, some sort of trade off. Like, _if I let you defile me, will you love me? If I let you have me in the most intimate way, if I let you have_ everything, _will you love me then?_

 

Maybe he doesn’t get horny when he’s drunk and sad. Maybe he just gets insecure. Maybe that’s why he goes back to Roman every time, because he’s so afraid that what little love he supposedly has will disappear if he doesn’t consistently tend to it by sleeping with him.

 

“He hurts you,” Louis repeats again, and he’s always saying this, isn’t he? He hurts you. He hurts you. It never seems to sink in, no matter how many times Louis tells him. “It doesn’t matter if he loves you, or supposedly loves you, Harry. He _hurts_ you.”

 

Harry’s eyes are filling with tears, and he stumbles to the side, bumping into the wall slightly. He’s more drunk than Louis thought, and now he’s even more worried because with absolutely no inhibition it’s so _incredibly_ easy to take advantage of him, and Louis is so sick of it, so sick of Harry returning in the middle of the night sobbing, so sick of having to comfort him, so sick of seeing him in pain, so sick of watching him suffer without end.

 

So he resorts to begging, “Please stay here, Harry, c’mon. Please don’t see him tonight…”

 

Harry retreats quickly, pulling himself up from where he was slouching against the wall. He meets Louis’ gaze with a cold stare, and even colder words. “You can’t- You’re not my _boyfriend,_ Louis, you don’t get to fucking decide what I do or don’t do.”

 

All the breath leaves Louis’ lungs. “I’m not- I- What?”

 

But Harry is already pushing past him and stumbling out the door, slamming it hard behind him. No longer the shy, tentative roommate but something else entirely.

 

Something awful, maybe. Something broken.

  
  


…

  
  


So Harry is a creature of habit and apparently Louis is too.

 

Because Harry returns late in the night looking fucked out and utterly depressed in a hysteric sort of way, and Louis meets him in the hallway and brings him to his bed to hold him close and let Harry fall into his arms to cry until he falls asleep.

 

Because Louis strokes his hair like he always does, twisting his fingers into the messy curls at the nape of his neck, and wonders how this came to be.

 

Because this has happened a million times over, so often that Louis can predict each situation with incredible accuracy, and yet he has never found a way to break the cycle.

  
  


…

  
  


He was right about the lust thing, though.

 

This becomes apparent one night during the subsequent weekend, as Louis is asleep in his bed after a day of cramming for final exams which begin in two days. They’re both so unbelievably stressed and caught up with exams that they haven’t even discussed plans for the holiday and it doesn’t even cross Louis’ mind for a moment.

 

There’s a sound that somehow wakes him even though it’s quiet and barely there. This is part of what leads Louis to believe that he’s more than aptly attuned to all things Harry, most notably his distress.

 

He opens his eyes and it takes a moment for them to adjust to the darkness but when they do he sees Harry standing in his doorway, curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle. Louis can’t see his face because mostly he’s just a silhouette from the dim hallway light. It’s frighteningly grim to see him cast in shadow, standing silently at the foot of the bed, unmoving.

 

“Harry?”

 

He sniffles in response, obviously crying. Always crying. It happens too much for it to not be a serious problem.

 

“Come here…” Louis sighs. “What’s wrong?”

 

Harry clambers onto Louis’ bed and beneath the covers, clinging to Louis’ side like he can’t bare the thought of letting go. Which is ridiculous, frankly.

 

“I need you,” he cries.

 

Beneath the distress and sadness, how nice it feels to be needed. “I know, H, it’s okay. I’m here. It’ll be okay.”

 

“No, I mean- I’m horny,” he says, and. What?

 

“What?” Louis voices, pulling away but Harry follows, grasping steadfastly at his jumper.

 

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Harry blubbers, sobbing violently. “He- he found someone else and now he doesn’t need me, but I still need him and I’m horny and I just need someone to fuck me-”

 

“Wait,” Louis interrupts, shushing him with a hand over his mouth, because god is his mind spinning and he has to clarify at least one important detail in order to even begin parsing through this colossal mess. “You’re talking about Roman?”

 

Harry nods, exhaling heavily through his nose because Louis’ hand is still covering his mouth.

 

“Oh,” Louis breathes, dropping his hand and finding himself unable to formulate a real sentence.

 

“Please fuck me,” Harry whines, grabbing at Louis and holding him tightly with worried hands. “Please, please, please-”  
  


But Louis smells the alcohol on his breath and all of it feels so wrong, so messed up, and Louis’ heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. And yeah, it doesn’t feel great, because Harry wants to get off but apparently not alone and Louis is just the means to an end, like some sort of severely messed up sexual objectification.

 

And like, it brings him back to the past few years when he has been used time and time again as just a body to fuck, by boyfriends and strangers and really anyone who took an interest in him at all. No matter who he dated, no matter who he met, if they wanted him it was for sex only, and that was… That was messed up. That was probably the worst era of Louis’ life, and now Harry is dragging it up again and acting so blase about it—about love and the intimacy of sex—and it’s making Louis so upset he’s nearly sick.

 

“Harry, no. _No._ I’m not doing that.”

 

“But-”

 

“No. No, I’m not- No. Get out of here. Go back to bed.”

 

“Louis,” Harry whines, like a child, and _god, that’s so messed up. So messed up._ Louis shoves Harry away and he takes the breathy alcohol scent with him.

 

“No Harry, fuck, _no._ I’m not just- You can’t just use me like that. _”_

 

Harry stares at him for a long, wavering moment. But Louis refuses to back down. There is no way he would ever let something so irresponsible happen, regardless of needs and wants.

 

So Harry leaves, and Louis cries because nothing makes sense, and it hasn’t made sense for a long time.

  
  


…

  
  


Harry apologizes in the morning, saying it isn’t any excuse but he was drunk and desperate and really needed someone, or something. And yeah, Louis gets it, but that doesn’t make it any better. Still, he accepts the apology because he really has to study and he can’t be constantly focusing on his roommate’s insanity all the time.

 

In fact, it’s the first time he wishes he had said no when Liam asked if Harry could live with him for a while.

 

“Are you going home for break?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Louis is lying on the floor, surrounded by papers and textbooks, his mind bogged down by chemical engineering. The good thing is that he’s never felt more prepared for his exams; the bad thing is that isn’t saying much.

 

“Are you going home,” Harry repeats, “after exams?”

 

“Oh. Uh, no.” He doesn’t have the money for a plane ticket back to Doncaster. Looking up at Harry, who is sitting curled up on the couch with his knees to his chest, bare feet on the edge with toenails painted bubblegum pink, Louis meets his tired green eyes and asks, “Are you?”

 

Harry suddenly looks startled, as if he hadn’t expected Louis to turn the question on him. “Um. No, I’m not.”

 

Louis nods, smiling gently at him in solidarity. His stomach is still churning from the night before, every nerve in his body on edge, but he’s trying to move past it. “Cool, cool. Do you celebrate Christmas?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, if you’re free for the holiday you’re welcome to join me. I’m thinking holiday movies, gingerbread cookies, and takeout.”

 

Harry smiles slightly too, and it feels like an accomplishment, making Louis’ stomach flutter. “That sounds lovely. But I was thinking of going on a roadtrip, actually.”

 

“Oh, cool. Where’re you going?”

 

“Not sure yet,” Harry muses, tapping his nails on his sketchpad. “Through the Midwest, probably.”

 

“Illinois?”

 

He pinches his bottom lip between his fingers like he does when he’s nervous or contemplative. “I’d like to avoid it.”

 

Louis doesn’t ask why he’d rather avoid his home state. In fact, he can already presume the answer. “Are you going alone?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you have a car?”

 

“Gonna rent one.”

 

Louis hums, considering for a moment. Is it a good idea? He decides to go for it. “You know, I have a car, if you wanna use it.”

 

“Oh. Um. That’s really… That’s really nice of you.”

 

They sit in silence for a long, long while. Louis’ gaze drifts away from Harry and back to his notes. He gets lost in chemistry for a little while, running through problem sets and their solutions. Harry still hasn’t resumed sketching.

 

He taps his fingers on the paper again, and the sound sends prickles of strange pleasure down Louis’ spine. He looks up at Harry to catch him already staring. “What?”

 

“You could… You could come with me, if you want.”

 

Louis’ mind blanches. “Wait, really?”

 

Harry blushes and looks away. “Sorry, of course you wouldn’t want- I shouldn’t have even asked.”

 

“Wait, Harry, no. That sounds like it could be really fun. Would you really want me to tag along?”

 

“I mean, yeah, if you want to.”

 

It’s momentous, in a way, to have his shy, guarded roommate asking Louis to accompany him on his end-of-semester road trip, and it’s honestly something he never expected. Unprepared to answer, and having none off the top of his head, Louis fumbles for a response. It isn’t like him to be low on words but it seems with Harry it’s more common for his mind to turn devastatingly blank, even at the simplest request.

 

This isn’t a request, but rather an invitation, and it holds a certain complexity to it that turns Louis uneasy because he isn’t sure how to respond. He tries to imagine spending days in the car with Harry, driving for hours. It seems like he doesn’t even really have a destination in mind, just traveling for the sake of exploration or maybe just getting away. What would they even do together? Listen to the radio? Talk? About what?

 

It seems unlikely. But Louis likes Harry a lot. Too much, sometimes.

 

Additionally, it’s not just that Louis likes Harry and enjoys his company—it’s that he feels protective of his roommate in an idiosyncratic manner which has been cultivated by nights of cuddling him on the couch and calming him after nightmares.

 

And even still… it’s more than just liking him and it’s more than the strangely primal protectiveness which guides his actions around Harry. It’s the fact that no matter how damaged he may be, Harry is just a generally good person, like a beacon of light in a dull world. Louis likes good people. Louis wants to spend time with good people.

 

“Well,” Louis answers, pausing to swallow and consider his words. “If you’re really okay with me tagging along, I’d love to come. I love road trips.”

 

Road trips are fun, but a road trip without a set destination feels like another level of interesting. It’s probably not the best idea but then again Louis thinks of having all this time to spend with Harry, alone with no distractions. He thinks of all the time they’ll have to speak, all the time he’ll have to coax Harry into talking, to crack him open and spill his secrets.

 

Louis never considered himself to have a savior complex, but it seems pretty likely when he realizes he wants to help Harry, wants to save him. And what better way to do that then to spend as much time with him as possible?

 

Okay, so he’ll be the first to admit it’s a little ridiculous. It may be an ulterior motive to saying yes to Harry’s invitation, but it’s with good intentions. He’s just worried. He just wants to keep him safe.

  
  


…

  
  


As always, finals week is essentially just five days of hell.

 

Louis gets up early and stays up late, always studying. The amount of sleep he gets is less than minimal—it’s practically nonexistent—and he feels like shit. His eyes are burning from exhaustion and the left one keeps twitching. He’s pretty sure he’s going to keel over and die soon.

 

Right now, he’s sprawled out on the living room floor surrounded by a sea of papers and textbooks. It looks as though a tornado swept through the room. Harry is sitting on the couch, having a panic attack about his art piece which is nowhere near finished. He continually promises Louis he’s okay, even through the insane amounts of tears pouring down his cheeks like a rainstorm.

 

It’s when Louis’ entire leg goes numb from how long he’s been lying on the floor that he finally decides he’s had enough.

 

“You know what?” He exclaims, shooting up abruptly and then wavering on his feet when his vision almost turns completely black from all the blood rushing to his head.

 

“What?” Harry sniffles, looking like he’s on the verge of setting flame to the large piece of thick paper he’s currently drawing on. He looks murderous, or perhaps suicidal. Both options are horrifying, but either way it looks like he wants to kill someone.

 

“We need a break,” Louis declares decidedly. He hobbles over to Harry, mindful of his numb leg which is now tingling uncomfortably, and pulls the paper out of his hands. Harry protests verbally, whining in exasperation and confusion, though Louis placates him by setting it carefully on the table.

 

“Lou stop I need to-”

 

“Harry. You’ve been crying about the positioning of the hand for three hours now. We need to get out of here and calm down for a second.”

 

It’s a moment before he acquiesces, but eventually he gives in, wiping at the streams of tears glistening on his face and dripping down his neck. His face is a map full of shiny, beautiful rivulets. “Okay, fine. Where are we going?”

 

“Dinner. Pizza?”

 

“What about delivery?”

 

“No. If I go any longer without leaving this fucking apartment, I think I might actually die.”

 

Harry agrees, wiping at his eyes to get rid of the tears, which is something he’s quite used to since he cries all the time. There’s no reason to get dressed in anything special since they’re only going to get pizza, but Louis does change out of his plaid pajama pants and into regular sweats, while Harry washes the paint and graphite off his face and makes a futile attempt to fix his greasy, tangled hair.

 

He looks beautiful still. Even through the awful haze of finals, exhausted and crestfallen, he looks beautiful. Louis thinks he could roll through the mud and still look gorgeous. He wonders if other people can see it too, or if this soft prettiness is just something Louis notices.

 

They head to a cheap pizza place close to their apartment. Since it’s dinner time, the restaurant is overflowing with people, and the line to be seated spills out onto the sidewalk. While everyone around them chats conversationally, they wait in comfortable silence. Louis is so glad they’ve gotten to the stage of their quasi-friendship where they can exist next to each other without feeling awkward for not saying anything.

 

While they wait in line, he leans on Harry and rests his head on his shoulder. In general, Louis is relatively touchy-feely person, and doesn’t mind physical contact with his friends. He doesn’t think much of it when he does it, because it’s such a common thing for him to do, almost like a reflex. When Harry puts his arm around him and lightly rests his hand on his shoulder, something warm spills from Louis heart. It feels like staring at the stars in the night sky, or lying in the summer sun.

 

It’s comfortable. It’s nice. It’s exactly the break they needed after working for so long. Louis’ brain is fried, but it feels better when he’s not stressing over it and instead laughing along with Harry as they make stupid jokes and eat pizza in a cramped booth in the corner of a crowded pizzaria. It’s nice to have Harry smiling again after hours of listening to him cry continually without end.

 

Louis is rolling his eyes at a stupid pun when he thinks of something that makes him laugh. Harry asks him why he’s suddenly cackling to himself, and he responds, “I can’t believe the first time I saw you, you walked into a pole.”

 

“Oh god,” he mumbles, covering his face with one large hand, the other busy twirling his straw in his water.

 

“What was that about?” Louis asks, still laughing lightly. Not thinking anything of it. He remembers the image of Harry looking straight ahead and running right into the pole anyway. He wasn’t even distracted by anything. It’s just so funny to think about.

 

But then Louis looks up and sees the uneasy, uncomfortable look on Harry’s face and he knows he said something wrong. Immediately, he stops laughing and turns concerned.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I was dissociating.”

 

“What? Right now?”

 

Harry bites his thumbnail like he’s nervous. Speaking around it, he says, “No. When I…” His voice trails off and he doesn’t make an effort to finish his sentence. He looks embarrassed, to say the least. Ashamed, like he hates himself.

 

And oh. That makes a lot of sense. When Harry dissociates, nothing feels real, and he loses grip of reality. He walked right into a lamp post while looking directly at it, but not actually _seeing_ it.

 

Now Louis feels bad for laughing. He sobers up even more and reaches across the table, trying to grasp at Harry’s hands. Harry pulls them away though, defensively, and turns his shoulders inward.

 

“I’m sorry for laughing, H. I shouldn’t’ve.”

 

“It’s alright.”

 

“It’s not, though. I’m sorry. I’ll pay more attention now. Everything’s okay, right?”

 

“Yeah, I made a fool of myself in front of a ton of people. Hit my head on a pole. Everything’s fine.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, trying to work around Harry’s sarcasm.

 

There’s a long silence where Harry just stares down at the pizza crust crumbs on the table and fiddles with his crumpled napkin. Louis watches him uneasily.

 

“What’s it like?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Dissociating, I mean.”

 

“Oh. Ummm… I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

“Try,” Louis pleads, grabbing Harry’s hand as soon as he sets it on the table. He holds tightly before Harry can pull away. “Please.”

 

He sucks in a deep, arduous breath. “Okay. Um. It’s like… I feel really weird and like, disconnected.”

 

“Like an out-of-body experience?”

 

“Sometimes, I guess. Other times, I just like, lose awareness of my body and it kind of feels like a dream, like nothing’s real. Or like, sometimes I can’t feel my hands. Sometimes I don’t know where I am or what day it is, either.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“It feels like my mind is somewhere else and anything that happens to my body doesn’t actually happen to me.”

 

“That’s what happened the day I first saw you, before we knew each other?”

 

“Right. I don’t really remember it at all.”

 

“Oh. Not even the girl who helped you afterwards?”

 

“Someone helped me afterwards..?”

 

“Umm, yeah,” Louis answers lamely, feeling a fresh wave of concern that settles high in his stomach. Everytime he thinks it’s bad, Harry tells him something new and it turns a lot worse.

 

“Sorry. I know it’s- I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m insane. I should be in a psych ward or something.”

 

Feeling his heart clench painfully in his chest, Louis squeezes Harry’s hands and rubs at them comfortingly. Harry has nice hands; big palms with long but thin fingers, and bony knuckles that feel pleasing to the touch.

 

“You’re not… Harry, no. I just…”

 

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

 

“It’s more common than you think, H. You’re fine. Everything’s okay. We’ll just… We’ll get you help, yeah? And everything will be okay.”

 

Harry shakes his head, trying to pull his hands away. Louis clings on tightly, desperate to feel him there, safe and warm and okay.

 

“The amount of therapists I’ve been to… I know they can’t fix me.”

 

“Are you seeing one right now?”

 

“No, my last one- I left her just before I met you.”

 

 _Just before I met you._ Stupidly, Louis likes that phrase. It makes him feel like he’s somehow had an impact on Harry’s life, like in some way he’s important to him. He knows Harry doesn’t mean it that way, but that’s what it feels like, and it makes his heart flip unreasonably in his chest.

 

“And it wasn’t helping?”

 

“No. I don’t know. She made me feel so much worse.”

 

“Okay. That’s fine, I just. I’ll keep my eye out for someone new, yeah? And maybe we can go together if you don’t want to go alone?”

 

“I don’t know, um…”

 

“We’ll figure it out. Just- We have to keep trying, yeah?”

 

Harry’s quiet for a long moment. He looks down at the table again, and when Louis scans his gaze over him he realizes his eyes are filling with tears.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“You just… When you say ‘we,’ that makes me cry. I don’t know.”

 

Louis stills immediately, confused and worried.

 

“In a good way,” Harry rushes to assure.

 

Louis’ shoulders slump with relief. “Okay. Good. You deserve someone on your side, H. We’re in this together, if you want me to be a part of this.”

 

Harry bites his lip, looking like he wants to say something else. Louis waits patiently for him to say something but it never comes.

 

“What is it, H?”

 

He sniffles, rubbing his nose with his hand. His voice is soft when he speaks, gentle and quiet like he’s whispering an embarrassing secret. “It’s just that no one has ever said that before.”

 

And Louis doesn’t know what to say, so he just squeezes his hands tighter and hopes something comforting is conveyed through the gesture. It’s all they have.

  
  


…

  
  


The night after finals are finished, Harry falls asleep on the hardwood floor of Louis’ bedroom.

 

He had been helping Louis pack for their road trip, since he had already finished gathering his own belongings. Louis was in the process of jamming his bag closed as best he could when he looked to the floor and saw Harry as he is now, sprawled out on the floor and totally conked out.

 

The thing is, nothing is more adorable than Harry’s sleeping face. His visage is completely at ease, eyebrows unfurrowed and lips relaxed. When he has nightmares he’ll purse them into a pout, so that’s how Louis knows he’s either having a good dream, or not dreaming at all. Both possibilities are better than the alternative, which involves a distressed Harry screaming and thrashing.

 

He finishes packing and then collapses back on his bed, ready to fall asleep. He can’t leave Harry on his floor but he doesn’t want to wake him up, either. He doesn’t want to disturb the peace. So he stares at the ceiling and thinks about the mess of things in his mind. Mostly, his feelings for Harry.

 

This morning, Louis woke up to the gentle sound of Harry cooing at Clifford in the hallway, petting his fluffy fur and scratching behind his ears. Even after he got dressed and walked out of his bedroom, Harry was still there, lying on the wood floor of the hallway, giggling as Clifford attacked his face in kisses.

 

“Gross, get a room,” Louis had joked, poking Harry in the tummy with his toe. That made Harry shriek and squirm away even as the labradoodle continued to maul him with affection.

 

Thinking about it now, Louis has to cover his face with his hands to muffle his groan. It’s just that Harry fits into his life so well, it’s difficult to remember sometimes that this arrangement isn’t permanent. He simply offered up the extra room in his apartment to a friend of a friend in order to help him get back on his feet after a bad breakup. But now that he’s in so deep it’s clear that the situation is not what it seems.

 

They’re leaving early tomorrow morning to spend entire days in a car together, traveling to the Midwest for God knows what. Louis has to sort out his feelings before then or else he’s afraid something bad will happen. But he’s so confused and conflicted, he doesn’t even know where to begin.

 

Harry trusts him, for one. That seems like a good place to start unpacking all the complexities of the situation. Harry trusts him and trust is the basis of any interpersonal relationship, right? Trust is important. Trust is the basic building block of camaraderie or love. Trust is essential and it’s not easy to come by. Louis has worked hard the past few months to get Harry to trust him.

 

Trust means breaking down one’s walls and letting someone in. Trust means being honest and open. Perhaps they’re still far from honest and open, but they’re getting there. They’re making progress. Louis is confident in the progression of their friendship and he’s hoping that someday soon Harry will tell him about more about the storm inside his mind.

 

It feels special that Harry is letting him in because as far as Louis can tell, and from what he’s heard from Liam and witnessed himself, Harry is a very closed-off person. This makes Louis feel important and needed. Even if Harry isn’t feeling very inclined to talk about what’s going on, he’ll almost always let Louis sit close to him on the couch as they read, study, or watch TV in comfortable silence. He doesn’t mind the proximity and he feels comfortable enough with Louis to rest his head on his shoulder or his lap and fall asleep.

 

And then there are the nightmares, from which Louis always tries to comfort him. He knows for a fact that Liam never did such a thing and it seems unlikely that anyone else in Harry’s life ever rocked him back and forth or sang to him just to calm him down.

 

There are the moments when Harry dissociates and his mind drifts far away, whenever he’s having a particularly bad day or something triggers his recollection of something painful from the past. When they were eating greasy pizza and trying not to stress over their exams, Harry said he has been experiencing dissociation for years but no one has ever said anything about it. That makes Louis the only to have noticed or cared enough to ask him about it and make sure he’s okay.

 

However, the nightmares, the dissociation, the shaking hands, the faraway look in his eyes—the trauma of it all—are not all there is to Harry Styles as a person. He is not his fear. He is not his past. The abuse, and the subsequent aftermath of the abuse, is not all he is comprised of.

 

One of Harry’s biggest passions is art. Even though it’s been stressing him out lately due to the final exams and projects of his courses, it’s obvious that art is a great relief and release in his life. He is, at any given time, almost always sketching, painting, taking photographs, glueing collages, staring at color palettes, or doodling on random scraps of paper. In fact, Louis finds his doodles in the most random places: scribbled on the backs of receipts, scrawled onto the shopping list on the fridge, even sketched onto the cardboard boxes he brought with him when he moved into the apartment. He draws whatever comes to mind, like flowers or bees or swirling spirals. He has an affinity for sketching both trees and sea creatures. Art is his favorite hobby, his best talent, his absolute passion.

 

Louis admires that. More than anything, maybe. He sees the way Harry gets lost in his own world when he’s creating something. Lips pursed and brows furrowed, eyes set and concentrated on what’s in front of him. He sees this and it makes him ache with adoration because there’s something to be admired about focusing on something that appears small and insignificant, about creating something just for the sake of making the world more beautiful.

 

He hasn’t even hit the tip of the iceberg yet about why he likes Harry when it hits him: he likes Harry. It’s a surprisingly startling revelation, given the fact that in hindsight it seems quite obvious.

 

Harry is cute, sweet, and kind, and he always apologizes when he bumps into things even if it’s just a doorframe or the coffee table. He has this old jean jacket, a thrift store find, which he fills with patches and pins of rainbows, animals, band names and lyrics. When they’re out at the bar with Liam, Zayn, and Niall, he talks a lot about the most random things, even when no one’s really listening. When he’s nervous, he bites his nails, jitters his knees, and plays with his rings or the cross necklace he never takes off. When he’s outside, no matter the weather, he tilts his head back and admires the sky.

 

And a few days ago on the first day of finals, Louis walked out of his exam to find Harry waiting there against the wall, looking rumpled with sleep, and holding a takeout bag in his hands.

 

“What’re you doing here?” Louis had asked, a bit frazzled after his exam, his mind scattered. The sight of Harry waiting outside of his classroom wearing sweats and snow boots, looking like the perfect cuddle partner, did nothing to ease his confusion.

 

Harry had lifted the bag in response before dragging Louis outside to a secluded spot on the wide marble stairs leading up to an academic building, where they sat and ate sandwiches despite the snow and the freezing wind. Halfway through their lunch, Harry had finally explained that he tracked Louis down after his exam because he knew he probably wasn’t going to eat lunch that day. It was an unexpected but wholly lovely experience.

 

And just yesterday they were walking Clifford in the park when this little girl came flying by, chasing after her brother. There was a frozen puddle turned into a patch of ice right on the edge of the path, which caused her to slip and go crashing to the ground. Harry had been so gentle with her, kneeling by her side and helping her up as Louis looked for the little girl’s caregiver. Immediately upon impact she had burst into tears, but Harry had managed to make her laugh within minutes. All the while Louis stood by and watched with admiration and envy, desperately trying not to think of how great a father Harry would make.

 

Right. So the crux is that Harry is a great person and Louis may perhaps like him more than he likes the average person. He may perhaps want to get to know Harry, in a more-than-platonic way.

 

It’s difficult for Louis to admit this to himself because he hasn’t liked anyone in a long, long time. Not since his stupid fucking ex-boyfriend posted compromising pictures of Louis all over every social media platform in all of creation. Ever since then he’s been sleeping around with awful men because that’s what’s expected of him.

 

Right after the stupid pictures were posted and everyone began avoiding him like the plague, he isolated himself and fell into an uncharacteristic depression that worried his mother the most. It took months for him to finally be okay enough with himself to start “dating” again but as it turns out, only the worst people were still interested in him after his reputation was absolutely demolished. For a short period of time, he went on a large amount of dates, all with different people, and put out every time because in a sick way he was afraid to disappoint people. Lately, he hasn’t been out to a club since Harry moved in and he doesn’t really know what to make of that.

 

Guys gloat about dating him because of his reputation as someone who’s “easy” or a “slut” but no one ever wants to keep him. Apparently he’s only good for a fuck or two and then he’s useless, tossed away and discarded like trash or something worse. He has at the time unknowingly helped too many people cheat and there’s a certain sort of heavy guilt that hangs in his heart when he’s reminded of this momentously truthful fact. In terms of grossly deep honesties about himself, Louis is genuinely afraid that no one will ever love him.

 

And certainly not Harry. Harry who is so beautiful and compassionate and perfectly unattainable. Harry who could get any guy in the world but for some incomprehensible reason is so absolutely enamored by the one man on earth who is so awful he may actually be the devil himself.

 

Louis sighs and opens his eyes, peering over the edge of the bed towards Harry’s sleeping figure on the floor. He’s lying on his stomach, with his limbs splayed out in the form of a starfish and his face is turned to the side facing Louis. His head is a mess of curls, some of them obscuring his visage, still damp from his shower earlier in the evening.

 

With each breath, the broad expanse of his back rises and falls rhythmically. The thin gray t-shirt stretched over his torso gives Louis the opportunity to admire the muscles of his back, and he stares with a weird sort of longing that makes him feel a bit creepy when he looks back at Harry’s face and is greeted with his calm expression again.

 

Louis allows himself one more longing look over Harry’s body, cataloging the dip of his waist, the curve of his bum, and the length of his legs, before he stands up and approaches him. Harry has a history of back problems and it’s important that he sleeps on an actual mattress instead of the floor. With this in mind, Louis rubs his shoulder and prods at him until he opens his sleepy eyes and looks blearily at Louis.

 

“What’s going on?” He asks, rubbing at his cheek.

 

“It’s about two o’clock in the morning and you’re laying on my bedroom floor.”

 

“Oh. Sorry.”

 

Louis waves his hand noncommittally. “I’m just worried about your back, ‘s all.”

 

Harry smiles sleepily at him before stumbling to a standing position. Louis expects him to leave then, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks slowly across the room, peels back the duvet, and slips in between the sheets of Louis’ bed.

 

All the while, Louis watches with his mouth open. Harry doesn’t seem to have any qualms.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Your bed is so much comfier,” Harry mumbles, before pulling the sheets up to his chin and snuggling in. Louis groans.

 

Perhaps he has the option of joining Harry, seeing as it is his bed and all. But realistically, he doesn’t see how he can share a bed with him without either losing his self-restraint or turning to dust from want.

 

He’s exhausted, though.

 

He ends up sleeping on the floor.

  
  


…

  
  


“So what’s the plan, kiddo?”

 

Harry grimaces at him around his coffee mug, looking peacefully well-rested despite the early hour of the morning. It’s seven o’clock and his eyes are bright, reflecting the pale morning light seeping in through the windows of the kitchen.

 

It’s snowing outside, in thick heavy flakes that are collecting on the city streets. Though they’ve both lived in cold weather all their lives, it would be a lie to say they aren’t at least a little concerned about driving nearly a thousand miles in the winter weather.

 

“You always call me that.”

 

“We’ve discussed this already. I call everyone ‘kiddo.’” _Besides, you like it,_ he doesn’t say.

 

“You don’t, though.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just you.” Louis is in the process of fiddling with the GPS system they’re using instead of their phones, when he turns around and looks back at Harry to see him pouting. “What?”

 

“I just- I don’t know.”

 

“Do you want me to call you something else?”

 

“No, but like. Um. I don’t know.”

 

“Okay. Good talk. Now where are we going exactly?”

 

Their final destination is Elmhurst, Illinois, the small town in which Harry grew up. Earlier when Louis had asked, Harry had said he’d “like to avoid it” but Louis knew then and there that he wasn’t giving the full answer. Of course the road trip had a destination, but perhaps one that Harry wasn’t very enthusiastic about. Louis still doesn’t know why Harry wants to return for the holidays, since he seems to hate it so much, but he’s hoping he can get an answer out of him during their nineteen hour drive to Illinois.

 

It’s going to take nineteen hours because Harry wants to drive through West Virginia and Kentucky instead of traveling due West straight to Elmhurst. Louis has never been to either West Virginia nor Kentucky, and he’s not sure there’s anything notable to see in either state. On the way back, they’ll drive through Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania.

 

“We’re spending the night in Charleston,” Harry finally answers, finally past Louis calling him kiddo. “It’s about an eight hour drive.”

 

“Alright, let’s get going then.”

 

Harry offers to drive the first leg, which means Louis gets the pleasure of dozing off with his head against the window before they make a stop at McDonald’s. Harry orders one breakfast sandwich with egg for Louis, a yogurt parfait for himself, two hash browns, and two small coffees, black. At the last second he adds a chocolate milkshake.

 

They eat while they drive. This results in Louis breaking off bits of Harry’s hash brown and feeding it to him by hand, making them both laugh. They share the milkshake, passing it back and forth between them, no care for germs.

 

The snow is just beginning, so the roads are okay right now but in a little while they won’t be. Louis feels better knowing they’re traveling south, where the weather hopefully won’t be as bad.

 

“Tell me something, H.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Tell me something about you.”

 

“Okay, ummm. I lied.”

 

“What?”

 

“I lied. I’m not vegetarian.”

 

“I’m confused.”

 

“I’m pollotarian.”

 

“You say that like I know what it means.”

 

“It means I’m mostly vegetarian, but sometimes I eat meat.”

 

Louis is intrigued. “When have you eaten meat recently?”

 

“I dunno, but sometimes I forget and I eat it without thinking.”

 

“But you’re essentially vegetarian.”

 

“I try to be.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“I feel bad about it.”

 

Louis looks over at him and can’t help the fond smile that overtakes his face. Sometimes Harry is just too much, in a good way. Too pure for this world.

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“You’re lovely.”

 

“Don’t be weird.”

 

“Just being honest,” Louis laughs. Far too endeared for just friends.

  
  


…

  
  


By the time they arrive in Charleston, they’re both so exhausted they feel like falling asleep right away.

 

Louis bites the bullet and offers to check them into the hotel while Harry waits in the car. It takes forever, for no apparent reason except that the receptionist behind the front desk seems to be in no hurry at all. Not that Louis is in a hurry, really, but he does want to check into his hotel room during this century at least.

 

Finally he returns to the car with two new key cards and a room assignment. They gather only the bags they need for the night and carry them inside. While taking the elevator, Harry rests his head on Louis’ shoulder and yawns.

 

The room is nice simply because it looks clean, and it has two beds as requested. Harry collapses on the bed nearer to the window and doesn’t get up again. Louis takes a hot shower and by the time he gets out and is drying off, Harry still hasn’t moved. He’s asleep on top of the duvet, curled up like he’s cold.

 

Since he’s already wearing comfy clothes from the car ride, there’s no reason to change into pajamas. Louis maneuvers him around in bed until he can pull the blankets over him to keep him warm. Harry snuffles into the sheets and burrows further into their comfort, but he stays asleep. Louis pets his hair and watches him for a moment before slipping into his own bed, not bothering to get dressed.

 

He turns out the light, and falls asleep.

  
  


…

  
  


The next morning, Harry is still sleepy so Louis drives first.

 

He’s full from a standard hotel breakfast, and hyped up on slightly watery coffee. Harry is curled up in the passenger’s seat and every so often Louis steals glances at him because he looks really cute like this: relaxed, calm, and trusting enough to fall asleep as Louis drives.

 

“You feeling okay?” Louis wonders once Harry is semi-awake, a few hours later.

 

Harry rubs his eyes and nods. “I dunno, I just feel exhausted.”

 

“Leftover stress from exams?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Well it’s over now; we’re on break. It’s okay to relax.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Excited for the caves?”

 

When they get to Kentucky, they’re staying overnight and the next morning they’re going to drive out to a place called Mammoth Caves National Park, to hopefully do a tour of an underground cave system. It was Harry’s idea and usually Louis isn’t a fan of touristy activities like this, but it actually seems pretty cool.

 

“Yep,” Harry sighs, rubbing at his face.

 

Louis allows a moment of contemplation, giving Harry the opportunity to speak. One of these days he’ll trust Louis enough to be honest with him, but apparently today is not that day. Louis keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead. “Tell me what’s wrong, H.”

 

“I miss him.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Roman.”

 

The breath is knocked straight from Louis’ lungs, and he fights to remain unaffected. “Oh. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“Umm…”

 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to. But it might help if you say it out loud.” _If you say it out loud, I can hold some of your grief too. Let me make it less heavy._ “What happened, H?”

 

Harry nods slowly and Louis thinks he isn’t going to say anything at all but then he speaks. It sounds like he’s forcing the words out but it’s a start and Louis feels simple relief wash over him like ocean waves.

 

“He found someone else. And I know… I mean, I’ve always known I wasn’t enough, but every time I’m reminded it just hurts like hell. I hate the idea of being obsessed with someone, it’s so pathetic, especially because he’s an awful person but I can’t help it. I really love him, even still. I always will.”

 

“Why do you love _him,_ though? I mean, if you know he’s awful,” Louis whispers.

 

Harry shakes his head. “I just do.”

 

If he said the truth, it would sound something like this:

 

_His love is all I deserve, if I deserve love at all. I don’t deserve to be loved by someone good._

 

Louis can hear it, though it isn’t said aloud. He doesn’t look at Harry again but he does take his hand off the wheel and wrap it around Harry’s, squeezing tight. Both their hands are cold, but they warm up together.

 

There’s a metaphor there. Something symbolic.

  
  


…

  
  


That night is when everything turns to disaster.

 

They have beers at dinner which is their first mistake. Harry is already tipsy by the time they get to the hotel, which they find out has a bar. Harry drags Louis to it, and Louis nurses one drink while Harry has several. By the end of the night Harry is being hit on by the man sitting on the other side of him, and Harry is taking it like a champ, giggling and fluttering his eyelashes. God damn flirting with him.

 

It makes Louis nervous. He doesn’t trust anyone with Harry, let alone a stranger. Especially since he knows Harry can’t really take care of himself; he always gets into trouble and gets hurt, and Louis is the one left to pick up the pieces and put him back together.

 

Besides, this man in particular looks like trouble. Louis can’t help but scowl at him. He’s at least thirty years old and wearing the most pristine suit Louis has ever seen. Definitely here on a business trip, and definitely married. He hasn’t even bothered to take off his wedding band. And yet Harry is still leaning in and hanging onto every word he says. It’s sickening.

 

The interaction ends in a proposition to which Harry agrees, but says he needs to go to his hotel room first and he’ll be right back. Louis follows him, only after he glares at the married man, of course.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Louis asks in a harsh whisper as they’re waiting for the elevator.

 

The doors open and Harry steps inside with purpose. Louis follows and then they’re together in a confined space and Harry smells so heavily like alcohol, it’s dizzying.

 

“Making friends,” he mutters, the sounds blurring into one another. More than tipsy, on his way to full out drunk.

 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

 

Harry glares at him. “You’re not stopping me from getting laid.”

 

They somehow make it to the hotel room, still arguing back and forth. Their voices elevate to yelling. The door slams behind them and Louis locks it. He feels frantic.

 

“You’re drunk and you’re going to get hurt.”

 

“I’ll be _fine.”_

 

Louis groans frustratedly. If he were younger he would throw a temper tantrum but right now he’s the responsible one between the two of them so he has to keep it together and set the right example. “Please stay here.”

 

“Only if you fuck me.”

 

There’s a silence so heavy the sound of a pin dropping could be heard. Louis’ jaw actually drops open. “What?”

 

“I’ll stay here, only if you fuck me,” Harry repeats very slowly and deliberately, and it’s clear that what he said isn’t a mistake.

 

“Harry, no.”

 

He begins unlocking the door and then sets his hand on the handle, ready to turn it. “You sure?” There’s no response so he begins to leave. The door swings closed behind him and rings in the silence.

 

Louis is happy to see him go. Good riddance. At least that’s what he tells himself to quell the fear in his heart. He stands there for a moment, dumbfounded and trying to justify not running after Harry.

 

And then he thinks of Harry, the beautiful but vulnerable human being who has a tendency to get hurt and an affinity for bad people who like to hurt him, rather than help him. The man at the bar seemed like an average, everyday person but that isn’t to say the typical human being isn’t awful.

 

The guilt creeps in on top of the fear and anxiety. If Harry gets hurt… It’s Louis’ fault, no matter what. Because he has a chance right now to stop it from happening altogether.

 

“Wait,” Louis gasps, feeling gross and heavy for being so easily manipulated. He swings the door open and calls down the hall, feeling like an exasperated idiot, “Wait, hang on!”

 

Harry stops partway down the hall. They stare at each other for a long moment, Louis heaving anxiously, taking in shallow breaths because he’s so worried.

 

He must see how much he has Louis wrapped around his little finger because he walks slowly down the hall, approaching Louis, looking like he’s fighting to keep his expression neutral. Like he’s fighting back a smirk. Louis backs into the room and lets Harry in too.

 

Harry lets the door close again, raising his eyebrows. “If I stay, you fuck me. If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving, and he’ll fuck me. Got it?”

 

“Okay, okay,” Louis mutters, defeated. He pulls Harry away from the door and then sits down on the edge of the bed, exhausted. “Jesus, you’re so fucked up.” He doesn’t even feel bad for saying it because it’s true, and Louis is cornered into doing something he isn’t comfortable with for the sake of keeping Harry safe and if that isn’t fucked up he doesn’t know what is.

 

“You’ll really do it?” He sounds incredulous. Louis gets it.

 

“Yeah, whatever the fuck you want. I’m done.” He really does feel done. Finished. Over it. “Just tell me what the fuck you want.”

 

Harry smiles at him a little and sits down on the bed. “I want you to fuck me so hard I’ll feel it for days.”

 

Louis can’t believe he’s doing this. He’s not happy about it. His hands are shaking but he’s good at hiding it. Harry seems to like someone who’s rough, which is good because Louis is in no mood to be sweet or gentle. He’s in no mood for anything at all, really, anything that involves sex and Harry in the same sentence.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t like Harry. It’s not that Harry isn’t attractive. It’s just that if he ever even allowed himself to think about being intimate with Harry, he never would’ve imagined it would happen this way. In his fantasies, perhaps they would be in Louis’ bed, making slow romantic love. Kissing and touching each other. Being gentle. Exploring. Loving.

 

Instead, they’re in a mediocre hotel in Cave City, Kentucky and Harry is threatening to leave unless Louis fucks him. Whatever that entails, it’s manipulative and awful.

 

The only time Louis has ever touched Harry’s bare skin, really, is when he had to dress him when he was drunk or that one time after the shower. No matter the situation, the intentions were not sexual, but rather to care for him.

 

Now, though, Louis is faced with real intimacy and he’s not sure if he can do it. He knows he _shouldn’t._ And of course it’s not very intimate, and might even feel a bit clinical, to just fuck him until he’s calm. But it’s undeniably sexual and it unnerves Louis.

 

Again, he isn’t in the mood to be gentle. He’s kind of pissed off, actually. And Harry is just looking at him expectantly.

 

“Get undressed.”

 

Harry looks like he wasn’t expecting a direct order. Like, in fact, he thought Louis would do it for him. “What?”

 

“Take your clothes off,” Louis snaps. “Do you have any lube?”

 

“In my bag,” he responds, eyes wide. “The front pocket.”

 

Louis retrieves it and rejoins Harry on the bed. He’s still in the process of undressing, currently sliding his sweats down his hips. His shirt is already off, pale skin on display. Louis is hardly even looking. It’s a process: undress him, fuck him, tire him out and keep him satisfied so he doesn’t leave in search of that man at the bar.

 

“How do you want me?”

 

Louis thinks of whichever position will require more energy and thus tire him and satisfy him more quickly. When he says it he realizes Harry might think he wants him like this for his own personal pleasure, but that’s not true. “Hands and knees,” he says eventually, his voice surprisingly steady and even. “And get these off, too.”

 

Harry gaps at him for a moment like he didn’t think Louis would ever actually step up and take charge. He pulls down his underwear and kicks them off. Louis makes a _hurry up_ motion with his hand and Harry obliges, clambering onto his hands and knees so he’s facing the headboard. So submissive, so ready to do whatever he’s told. It makes Louis feel sick.

 

Sitting behind him on the bed, he inhales shakily and tries to calm his pounding heart. It’s just that the sight of Harry in front of him, so bare and vulnerable, is wholly too much. He’s waiting patiently, unmoving, head down. Submissive, because isn’t he always? Louis stares at him for a moment, trying to take it all in and not freak out at what he’s about to do.

 

There’s the pale skin of his thighs, but when he looks closer he notices blemishes he doesn’t recognize. There are little circles, perhaps the size of dimes, littering the insides of his thighs, marking the otherwise pure and untouched skin. They’re old, completely healed, and Louis is so confused but he doesn’t even consider asking. He’s too entranced, and now is not the time. It might never be the time.

 

Without thinking about it, he drags his finger down the path of the scars, and Harry flinches, inhaling sharply, but doesn’t say anything. Louis fingers at one of them, high up on his thigh, near the cleft of his bum. Harry is surprisingly curvy, for how tall and lanky he is, and it’s nice to be able to admire his body for what it’s worth.

 

He can hear Harry’s breathing, and how it becomes more labored the more he touches him. He explores only a little bit, getting used to the feel of Harry’s skin beneath his hands. He’s warm, as he always is, which is nice because Louis feels demoralizingly cold right now, in a way that has less to do with the actual temperature of the room and more to do with how he feels inside.

 

He runs his hands on the backs of Harry’s thighs again, up to his butt and squeezing, before caressing his lower back and pulling away.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

“Yes,” Harry hisses, “Hurry the fuck up.”

 

It seems all out of order because usually sex starts with kissing, and yet they’ve barely even touched and Harry is already naked. It’s completely one sided, Louis is receiving no pleasure from this and he isn’t asking for any. He’s fully clothed and only planning on using his hand to pleasure Harry. It’s incredibly wrong but it’s kind of too late to back out now and he won’t risk Harry leaving to find someone else to do this to him.

 

“Alright.” Louis sits back on his heels but keeps a possessive hand on Harry’s ankle. “I want you to fuck yourself with your fingers.”

 

“What?”

 

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Louis asks coldly.

 

As expected, Harry responds well to authoritarian rule and harsh commands. Louis can already imagine what he’s actually like in bed. He could’ve guessed ages ago that Harry likes to be dominated. At this point, it’s more than obvious.

 

Harry fumbles around a bit, but Louis can tell he really is trying to be good and obedient, so he helps him out by slicking up his fingers for him with the lube. It’s definitely a challenge for him from this angle, since he has to reach completely behind himself to slip his fingers inside, and he can’t open himself up with his other hand since he’s using that one to balance.

 

He manages, of course, and it’s definitely a show to watch. Louis can’t help but stroke his ankle comfortingly as he whines about not being able to get his fingers in deep enough, though. The soft noises he makes are entirely too much for him to handle.

 

There’s something strange about watching him struggle that makes something burning hot unfurl deep in Louis’ stomach. It’s concerning, so he ignores it, though the feeling is hard to be overlooked. There’s a sick sort of pleasure in it, in seeing the desperate desire to please and the way it makes Harry frantic, trying so hard to follow Louis’ orders and be good for him.

 

“Add another,” he orders quietly when Harry is only two fingers deep, pumping them in and out slowly and shallowly.

 

“I can’t,” Harry gasps, whimpering, “Too tight.” Each time he pulls his fingers out the make a slick, wet sound that would be gross or embarrassing if the sight wasn’t so hot.

 

“You can,” Louis retorts, “and you will.” But still he gives Harry a few more moment of just using his two fingers, waiting patiently as he opens himself up. He isn’t about to hurt him for real; that would just be counterproductive. The coldness is only a front and deep inside Louis is worried he’s being too cruel. But still he gives orders as if he knows what in the hell he’s doing. In reality, he’s really just making it up as he goes and praying for the best. “Scissor your fingers. Spread yourself open.”

 

His two fingers are hardly in deep enough but he listens to Louis and does it anyways, spreading them apart and whining at the stretch. When Louis is pretty sure Harry is open enough for a third finger, at least so that it won’t hurt him, he migrates closer and squeezes his own finger in beside Harry’s.

 

It’s strange because it’s such an intimate thing, given the most they’ve ever done is hugged each other, really. Now Louis’ finger is inside of him, beside two of Harry’s own, and he feels the warm heat that makes him fantasize a bit about what it would feel like to _really_ be in him.

 

Harry gasps at the unexpected intrusion and moans loudly when Louis cricks his finger, rubbing against his wall for no reason other than to coax a reaction out of him. Harry’s hand stills and he makes no effort to move at all, probably trying to adjust.

 

Louis doesn’t want to give him time to adjust. He wants this to be over as soon as possible because the quicker that happens, the quicker they might be able to go back to some sense of normalcy. As if normalcy will even be a possibility after Harry comes on Louis’ fingers.

 

So he pulls his finger out and grabs Harry’s wrist to get him to do the same. His hole flutters at the sudden emptiness but Louis ignores it, coating his own fingers in lube and telling Harry, “Get a hand on yourself and jack yourself off.”

 

He presses his thumb to Harry’s pink hole, rubbing on the rim until Harry does as he’s told and starts pulling at his dick, which Louis can’t see from this position and frankly doesn’t care to see. He’s sure it’s beautiful, just like the rest of Harry, even the mysterious blemishes on his thighs. Louis gets distracted by them again but pulls himself out of it by pressing two fingers in deep without warning. It probably isn’t a nice thing to do and under different circumstances Louis would be much gentler, taking his time and really making sure Harry is okay.

 

He feels guilty when Harry gasps louder this time at the surprise, following it up with a low moan as Louis presses in as deep as he can, which happens to be further than Harry can ever do by himself, due to the angle which is difficult to work with. He only pumps his fingers twice before adding in a third one and swirling them around to stretch him out. Harry clenches around him, and Louis stills a little, wondering if it hurts.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Fuck,” he groans, slipping down so he’s resting on his forearm instead of his hand. He’s still stroking his dick just as he was told to do, the movement of his hand visible to Louis between the gap in his thighs and Louis watches as his long fingers curl around himself softly. Either he likes it gentle or he’s extremely sensitive. He rocks his hips back against Louis’ hand insistently. “Fuck, go harder, go harder.”

 

Now isn’t the time to deny him. Louis goes back to two fingers so it won’t hurt, and fucks in and out of him at an increasingly fast pace, not stopping even when he should, even when Harry gasps like he can’t catch his breath. Harry’s entire body shudders at the feeling and his thighs won’t stop shaking. He collapses down so his face is pressed into the pillow, arms completely giving out, his ass still up in the air as Louis pounds his fingers into it. It’s an absolutely filthy sight and Louis can hardly stand to watch. In a few minutes Harry is nearly screaming because Louis has managed to hit his prostate, and hit it again, and again, and again.

 

Wrist feeling sore, he takes a small break to bury his fingers in deep and rub relentlessly at Harry’s spot until he begs him to stop, his hand frantically jerking off his dick. He’s breathing so hard he’s nearly hyperventilating, and every so often he moans Louis’ name is his deep fucked out voice and it makes Louis want to go back to fucking him harder with his fingers so he does, adding the third one in again and vowing not to stop until Harry comes.

 

The sounds filling the room are obscene, both Harry’s moans and the sound of Louis’ lubed fingers pounding in and out of his hole, which is red and flushed now, obviously sensitive. Harry is full out shaking, about ready to collapse completely to the mattress. His skin is radiating heat and splotchy red in some places, a sharp contrast to his snowy paleness. Louis’ free hand smoothes over his skin and gropes at his ass hard enough to leave marks from his nails like tiny crescent moons.

 

“Look at you, fucking taking it like you know it’s all you’re meant to do,” Louis grits out, desperate just to get Harry to finish but somehow lost in it too, lost in being harsh and relentless, fucking him so hard with just his fingers, not letting up even when he begs so he’ll feel it for days. Harry is crying out now, and it sounds like he’s sobbing, overcome with it all. “You fucking like that don’t you? Filthy slut, you like the idea that you’re only good for sex? That all you’re worth is your pretty pink hole?”

 

Harry is moaning so loud now and sobbing too, and it sounds like he’s choking but Louis fucks him harder still, pushing his fingers in at a punishing pace.

 

Louis has no idea where all the dirty talk is coming from, and frankly he hadn’t known he had it in him. Not that he doesn’t like dirty talk or participate in it, but what he just said feels particularly filthy. It’s nuanced, too, with a strange dynamic he’s never dealt with before.

 

Harry seems to be reacting well to it though and that’s all that really matters. Louis might be concerned about what he just said but Harry seems to like it, with the way he’s moaning and crying and doing everything in pleasure, like he just can’t keep it all inside.

 

Only fifteen minutes after they started, Harry cries out and comes so hard it sends pulses through his body. His muscles clench, toes curl, and his thighs squeeze shut with Louis’ fingers still buried deep in him, pressing hard against his prostate. He collapses forward even more and buries his face in the pillow, muffling his breathing. His come messes the sheets, making them filthy.

 

Louis keeps his fingers in, worried of hurting him by pulling them out before he’s ready. Harry is relaxed around him now, every so often clenching and it takes all Louis has not to imagine the warm heat around a different part of his body that isn’t his hand. Eventually he bites the bullet and just pulls them out, wincing at the sound of Harry’s shocked gasp at the feeling. In apology, Louis pets his ass as a form of placation, rubbing soothingly.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry huffs, limbs splayed over the mattress, unmoving.

 

Louis smooths his hand down his lower back, moving lower to rub comfortingly over the curve of his ass again. He’s still so pissed off that Harry manipulated him into doing this, backed him against the wall and cornered him.

 

But then he realizes Harry is crying, with tear tracks covering his face, dripping down his chin, making him glisten. He looks utterly fucked: eyes red and puffy, skin splotchy, face wet from all the sobbing. And like… Louis did that. And he feels awful, even though it’s exactly what Harry asked for.

 

“You alright?”

 

Harry laughs quietly to himself, sniffling and wiping at his face too. The sound of his laughter, albeit out of place, makes Louis relax at least a little bit. “You just fucked me into the next dimension and you’re really asking if I’m alright?”

 

Louis laughs a little as well, figuring that if Harry can string a sentence together right now, he’s fine. “Just checking.” He sighs, eyeing the pink circles maring Harry’s thighs. “We’ve should get you in the shower, you’re all sweaty.”

 

“And come-y,” Harry adds, snuggling his face into the sheets. He’s surprisingly happy after crying over three fingers in his ass and an orgasm that left him shaking like a dog. “If you want me to get up you’re gonna have to carry me because ‘m not going anywhere.”

 

“Or I can just push you off the bed.”

 

“Good luck getting me off the floor,” he mumbles quietly, his voice showing the beginning signs of someone who’s falling asleep. “You think I wouldn’t sleep on the floor?”

 

“C’mon, you lazy ass, you’re really going to sleep in a puddle of your own come?”

 

“Mm, don’t care.”

 

“You’re disgusting.” Louis rolls him off the side of the bed but manages to catch him and stand him up before he falls over and hits the floor. With a hand around his bare waist, Louis walks him to the bathroom and props him up against the shower wall. “There you go.”

 

“Will you wash me?”

 

“Do I have to do everything for you?”

 

“Nevermind. I’ll get that man from the bar to help me instead.”

 

“Fuck off. You’re ridiculous.” Even as Louis steps this, he’s already stripping down to his boxers and closing the shower door behind him. If anything, tonight is the perfect proof that he can’t say no to Harry.

 

Already having been well acquainted with Harry’s naked body, this doesn’t bother him very much. In fact, unlike other times, he even lets himself enjoy it a little bit, as he runs his hands up and down Harry’s sides and wipes away the come on his stomach with a soapy washcloth. He figures since he’s already seen Harry on his hands and knees for him, practically presenting, it’s okay for him to admire his body a bit right now. Even though it does feel slightly depraved, because this is the person he has been caring for and protecting for months.

 

“Will you wash my hair for me?”

 

“Only if you sit down. You’re too god damn tall and I’m not craning my neck up to look at you.”

 

Harry smiles gratefully and takes a seat on the tile floor, right in front of Louis and facing him. He’s still sniffling a little but Louis hopes the warm water will calm him down and get him to stop crying.

 

Glad he decided not to strip all the way down, Louis is relieved he still has his boxers on because he doesn’t think he’d be able to stand the sight of a fucked-out-looking Harry sitting in front of him, staring up at him expectantly, at eye-level with his dick. No man is strong enough to survive such a sight.

 

So he lathers up Harry’s hair with shampoo and takes his time massaging his scalp and washing his hair, making sure it feels good.

 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re drying off and getting ready to get in bed. Tonight, they’ll be sharing, since one of the beds is completely uninhabitable due to Harry’s come being everywhere. Harry doesn’t seem to mind sharing a bed with him so Louis follows suit and tries not to mind either. He’s just going with the flow.

 

It’s hard, though, when Harry is wearing shorts that are really, really short. Like, so short that his ass is hanging out, the lower curve of his bum visible and tantalizing. He forgoes a shirt, too, and he must be thinking that Louis won’t mind since he has seen him naked on multiple occasions but he is sorely mistaken.

 

Louis can hardly look away no matter how hard he tries. He settles for lying down facing the other way, and turning out the light so the room is pitch black. Much safer, because now there’s no way he can see Harry.

 

But he can feel him. Which is awful, because Harry somehow gets the idea that Louis wants to cuddle, so he scooches really close to Louis’ back, pressing up against it and snuggling close. Or maybe he knows Louis doesn’t want to cuddle and he doesn’t care, and it’s all a selfish act because he just wants some physical attention. “Thank you,” he whispers, perhaps meaning, _Thank you for making me come with your fingers. Thank you for telling me I’m a filthy slut who’s only good for sex. Thank you for fucking me so hard I can barely stand up on my own._

 

Louis doesn’t respond and pretends to be asleep. In denial, as usual. It’s safer this way.

 

Of course, he’s isn’t asleep, and the thought of Harry’s warm skin pressed against him is what keeps him awake for what feels like hours.

 

When he finally lets himself enjoy the feeling of his body heat and the softness of his skin, though, and finally lets himself really listen to Harry’s cute sated breaths that are on the verge of snores, he falls asleep almost instantly.

  
  


…

  
  


It doesn’t really hit him until the next morning, when he wakes up at Harry clinging to his back like a baby koala clings to its mother.

 

Admittedly, Louis panics. A little. Any normal person would do the same. Luckily, he’s super good at internalizing it.

 

After getting his bearings together and staring blearily at the mess of curls he was assaulted with this morning, he realizes he needs to do something about this before something bad happens. Something bad being Louis imaging them waking up together, but for real, not just after a night of a weird business-like sex agreement, and it makes his heart hurt.

 

“Time to get up, H,” Louis says, giving Harry a little shake to wake him. He smiles blearily up at Louis. Is it possible for him to still look fucked out and sex-sleepy? Louis feels like it should’ve passed by now. He’s concerned it’s something that’ll never go away, and Louis will constantly be reminded of how he had three fingers buried deep in Harry’s ass last night. Jesus Christ. He just fucked his traumatized roommate in the ass with his fingers.

 

Wait, no, scratch that. He was just _manipulated_ into fucking his traumatized roommate in the ass with his fingers. Harry totally manipulated him and Louis does not appreciate that. There were definitely issues with consent last night, and if Louis were a better man he might confront Harry about it.

 

Besides, Harry was really, really drunk. Not that he acted drunk when Louis was fucking him, but who knows how much he remembers. Fuck.

 

“You alright, kiddo?” Louis asks, when he notices Harry still hasn’t gotten up yet even though he’s definitely awake now.

 

Harry smiles a big cheshire cat grin at him. “My ass hurts.” He knows exactly what he’s doing, no matter how sweet and innocent he looks. He’s devious.

 

Louis is glad he’s looking away, very focused on tying his shoelaces. “Well that’s too god damn bad, because we’re about to hike through some big ass caves with lots of stairs,” he jokes, trying to break whatever tension Harry is trying to create.

 

Harry isn’t giving up so easily. “Do you think maybe we could ask the workers for some ice?”

 

“Go outside and sit in the snow,” Louis retorts, hastily jamming things in his bag. He’s a bit desperate to get out of this cursed hotel room. God, he can’t believe he really did that last night. In his mind there’s a perpetual soundtrack of Harry’s moans, gasps, and cries, and it’s driving him crazy. He wills himself to forget, but the stubborn memory isn’t leaving so easily. The sounds may be ingrained in his mind forever.

 

“Or maybe I’ll ask that guy from yesterday for a massage.” He pretends to ponder it. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

 

Louis is already halfway out the door to get the fuck out of this cursed hotel. “You’re ridiculous. We have to go.”

 

“Does that bother you?” Harry asks innocently, pulling on a pair of running leggings that make his moderately-sized ass look really, really great. He knows exactly what he’s doing, Louis knows he does, especially when he turns to the side so he can check himself out in the mirror, running his hand along his thigh.

 

“Shut up, Harry. We’re gonna have to skip breakfast if you don’t start moving faster.”

 

They’re really in no rush at all. It hardly takes any time to get to Mammoth Caves and their tour doesn’t start for another three hours, anyways, so they’ll have time to kill. But Louis is definitely desperate to leave, or maybe just to change the conversation. He also really needs to call Liam so he can rant to him and hopefully figure out what the hell is going on and how he should deal with it.

 

Harry rolls his eyes, giving up the sexy seductive act and slipping on his tennis shoes. He still looks absolutely fuckable even now that he isn’t trying to be attractive. It’s horrible.

 

Downstairs in the lobby, they have breakfast which again includes too-watery coffee. Harry eats oatmeal with cranberries and almonds, plus a cup of strawberry yogurt. Louis goes for sausage, eggs, and toast. Afterwards they find out they’re both still hungry so they share a waffle drenched in maple syrup which is so sweet Louis knows he’s going to have a headache later.

 

Harry is now off the topic of sex and much more excitedly talking about the caves. He recaps the entire history of them to Louis in one long breath, not bothering to pause once. Louis nods along and smiles at him because Harry’s enthusiasm is cute, and besides, it’s such a relief to sort of be distracted from the colossal mistake which occurred last night.

 

The drive to the caves is nice, despite the snow, because it involves minimal highway and a lot of country roads. They pass tiny houses and lots of farmland, among expansive forests of beautiful trees. It must be even more gorgeous in the summer. Still, there’s something special about the way the sunlight reflects off the snow stuck to the tree branches.

 

Louis is the one who drives, meaning Harry is in charge of the AUX cord. He plays a ton of indie music that Louis doesn’t recognize, and some he does, but it sets a nice mood for their day exploring nature. He may not always understand Harry but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t find joy in him, either.

 

There’s a surprising amount of cars in the parking lot by the time they arrive. They still have about an hour and a half until their tour starts, so they look around in the gift shop and Harry’s end up buying a pin to add to the ever growing collection on his jean jacket. Louis helps him pin it onto the back, right above a patch of a cartoon cactus which says “free hugs” in pink letters.

 

There’s a museum too, so they walk through it in awe. Louis feels a strange sense of pride to find that Harry got all of the information right when he debriefed Louis of the history during breakfast, though he definitely shouldn’t be surprised. Harry is one of the most intelligent people Louis has ever met.

 

They walk around outside too, although it’s pretty cold. There are some nice trails though, and Harry is enthusiastic about them, so Louis obliges him and just goes along with it. Eventually it’s time to head to their tour group so they do, walking together towards the pavilion where they’re meeting. While the group waits for the rest of the stragglers to show up, they sit down together on a bench which feels freezing to the touch. Louis scoots closer to Harry to make up for the drop in temperature.

 

“You’re warm,” he sighs, giving in to a base need and looping his arm around Harry’s so they’re pressed even closer together. He even goes as far as to rest his head on Harry’s jean-jacket clad shoulder.

 

Harry throws his arm around Louis’ shoulder, and when Louis looks up he’s smiling. “Here, give me your hands,” he offers, holding his free palm open. Louis slides his hands into it and Harry clasps it closed tightly, warmth flooding back into Louis’ fingers. He rubs his shoulder too, the friction creating heat that spreads throughout his arm and chest. “Better?”

 

“Much. Thank you.”

 

To get to the entrance of the cave, they have to take a ten-minute bus ride to the opening. It’s not very cold on the bus, but Harry still holds Louis close and rubs his shoulder, their other fingers entangled. Louis doesn’t mind. Although he supposes it means more to him than it does to Harry.

 

No matter. Louis isn’t exactly in the mood to come to terms with the fact that he has a crush on someone as unattainable as Harry fucking Styles. He’d much rather explore some cool caves in peace, without the torrent of doubt and fear occupying his mind. So that’s exactly what he does.

 

The caves truly are cool, despite the amount of stairs they have to walk down, and then up. Harry walks behind him the entire time, since the paths are only wide enough for one person across. He keeps one hand secured on the railing and the other resting on Louis’ side, ready to catch him if he slips on the metal stairs wet from the drops of water dripping from the rocks.

 

The deepest part of the cave system is actually where the thin passageways open up into a large “room” that has enough space for their tour group of twenty people to sit on the manmade benches and listen to the park ranger as he gives an informational speech on some of the sites they passed while traveling down the stairs.

 

He’s talking about how they excavated the caves in the first place, when he flips the light switch and the lights go out abruptly, encasing all of entirety in nothing but darkness. Everyone gasps, and the ranger challenges them to be quiet and experience the darkest they will ever experience in their lives, probably, two hundred and fifty feet below the very surface of the earth.

 

It’s completely dark, not an inch of light, not even tiny stars dancing in his vision. There’s something about pitch blackness that feels claustrophobic, and has Louis’ heart in his throat. It’s so quiet that he can hear Harry breathing quietly beside him, and that calms him. Harry reaches over and fumbles for Louis’ hand, not stopping until he finds it. They interlace their fingers, and still cling to each other even when the ranger flicks open his lighter and the darkness is over.

  
  


…

  
  


“That was so fucking cool,” Harry says, for about the thirtieth time today.

 

Louis nods in agreement and takes another bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He isn’t about to squash Harry’s excitement, and besides, Louis can’t stop smiling either. Aside from the disaster last night, things have been going pretty well. Louis can’t complain, especially not when Harry wipes a bit of jelly from the corner of Louis’ mouth with his thumb, and presses it past Louis’ lips until he licks it off, giggling.

 

At the Mammoth Cave sign, they ask a passing group of teenage girls to take their picture, as per Harry’s idea. One of the girls obliges and takes a couple, saying it’s important to get multiple angles. Despite the fact that Louis is freezing his ass off and shivering like it’s nobody’s business, the pictures actually do turn out pretty great. While Harry drives, Louis steals his phone and sends them to himself.

 

There next stop is Elmhurst, Illinois—Harry’s hometown. Louis can tell he isn’t excited about it all. Louis is kind of worried too, because he has no idea what to expect, no idea what Harry’s planning on doing there.

 

Still, they have a six hour drive before either of them have to face anything, and Louis is definitely going to take advantage of that.

 

They listen to Adele’s entire discography while driving North, if only for the fact that it’s fun as hell to sing along to her music. It’s fun to listen to Harry sing too, especially when he has a smile on his face. They have a lot of fun being silly and stupid, and it’s nice.

 

Two hours in, Louis has to pee again, so they park at a rest stop and go pee together. Afterwards, they get drawn in by the sight of the vending machines and end up purchasing too many unhealthy snacks. Louis wants to switch drivers but Harry won’t let him so he ends up in the passenger’s seat again, navigating even though Harry really only needs the GPS on his phone.

 

Three hours in, Louis turns the music down and decides to just get it over with. The questions have been gnawing away at him for a while now, and as much as he hates to ruin the carefree mood, he has to ask.

 

“Hey, kiddo,” Louis begins, and then he cringes a little because Harry’s right, it might be a little weird that he calls him that especially after last night.

  
“Yeah?” Harry responds, smile still on his face. Louis feels bad that he’s probably about to wipe it off.

 

He has to ask though. “What are we gonna do in Elmhurst? And how long are we going to be here?”

 

As expected, he looks hesitant to answer. “A few days. Three, maybe.”

 

“Oh, okay. Are we seeing anyone?”

 

“We’re going to a funeral, so presumably everybody.” Harry laughs but it sounds hollow. “God knows even the worst people will still go to Church to prove they’re devout.”

 

“Whose funeral, Harry?” Louis asks softly.

 

His eyes are unwavering on the road, grip tight on the steering wheel. Snowflakes fall around them and make the roads slippery but Harry is a great driver and Louis doesn’t doubt him. “My grandmother’s,” he says finally, into the silence of the tires on the road.

 

“Were you close with her?”

 

Harry laughs that bitter laugh again. Louis doesn’t like it and he wants to reach over and hold his hand but it looks like they’re cemented onto the steering wheel and not going to move anytime soon, no matter what Louis wants. “No. Maybe. As close as I could be to my adoptive grandmother who thought I’ll go to hell because I like boys.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says quietly. There’s an ugly silence. “You know that’s not real, that God would hate you just because you like boys.”

 

“I know. Thank you.” Harry sighs and releases his grip from the wheel, setting his hand onto Louis’ open palm which is resting in the distance between them. He entangles their fingers, big paw engulfing Louis’ in size and warmth. “I’m comfortable with who I am but it’s just annoying. She always sided with my dad on everything, and he was wrong in so many ways… It didn’t matter, I was just a kid and no adult would ever listen to me. But I loved her, obviously, because I had to. Because she’s family. And some awful shit might’ve happened but we still had some good times, so I miss her. I know she loved me, deep down. That can’t be said for everyone in my family, so it’s important.”

 

Louis nods along, unsure if he should ask question or express sorrow or just let Harry spill what he wants to spill and move on. In the end, he plays it safe and asks, “When are the ceremonies?”

 

“The wake is tomorrow evening and mass is the next morning, followed by the burial.”

 

“Okay. Are you going to speak with your family?”

 

Harry smiles a little, squeezing Louis’ hand. “I’m gonna try not to.”

 

“Are we going to anyone’s house for anything? Like a reception or something?”

 

“Lots of questions, you’re very curious.”

 

“I need to know what to expect,” Louis defends. _You never tell me anything,_ he doesn’t say.

 

“I’m sure my parents will invite us to their house after the burial but I would really, really, really rather not go to that.”

 

“Okay. And are they going to react poorly to me being there?”

 

“Probably, but they’ll try to hide it for the sake of appearances. I’m tempted to tell them you’re my boyfriend just to piss them off.”

 

Louis laughs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah let’s not do that…”

 

“Kidding. The story is that we’re just roommates.”

 

“Isn’t that what we are?”

 

“Right.”

 

Louis opens his mouth to respond but decides against it.

 

“What?”

 

“Nevermind.”

 

“Is everyone homophobic or just your grandparents?”

 

“Everyone, pretty much. They’re not the best people.”

 

“I get it. Alright. So are we staying in a hotel because they didn’t offer to let you stay with them or because you don’t want to?”

 

“Both. Definitely both.”

 

“Cool, I respect that. We can be gay in peace.”

 

That comment cracks a smile and laugh out of Harry, so Louis deems it worth it. Definitely worth it.

  
  


…

  
  


When they get to the hotel, everything is normal. The room is essentially the same as the one last night, with two queen-sized beds, everything fairly clean.

 

Louis sets off to take a shower, leaving Harry to his own devices. This is a mistake. By the time he gets out of the shower after an admittedly long time standing beneath the hot spray, probably forty-five minutes later, he finds Harry almost naked and well on his way to intoxicated.

 

Harry doesn’t seem to be perturbed by Louis’ presence. In fact, he lets Louis stare at him as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror and drinks straight out of a bottle of cherry wine, his grip loose on the neck. He’s wearing nothing but lace panties, red this time, as he sways slowly back and forth to whatever sultry indie music he’s playing this time.

 

“Louis!” He exclaims excitedly, when he realizes Louis is standing there staring at him. Harry glides over to him, somehow graceful despite his drunkenness, and says, and Louis quotes, “I want you to fuck me again.”

 

Louis stares at him some more. His eyes do _not_ travel south to where Harry’s big hard dick is trapped in soft lace, peeking out the top and already leaking precome, which is just ridiculous. “You’re ridiculous,” he tells him. “Isn’t your ass sore?”

 

Harry smiles at him, big and wide. “It is, but if I take my medicine I’ll feel better.”

 

It’s a sexual come-on, a gross one at that because it alludes to a doctor kink which Louis definitely does not have. Harry probably does, though. Louis doesn’t want to know that. “Go away,” he mutters, trying to create some space between them. How can this keep happening? He thought he was in the clear…

 

The next word Harry says is something that changes Louis forever. He wishes he would have never heard it.

 

“Daddy,” he whines, pouting. “Why not?”

 

“Please don’t call me that,” Louis groans, feeling distraught and embarrassed. He covers his face in his hands, absolutely horrified. “I am really not into that. Jesus. You’re really insane, Harry, you know that right?”

 

Completely disregarding what Louis just said, Harry continues on making his life hell. “Daddy, I need you… Why won’t you fuck me?”

 

“Have you never heard of masturbation, Harry? It’s this thing you do when you’re horny and no one else is willing to fuck you. Works like a charm?”

 

“Will you show me, Daddy?”

 

“You’re insane.”

 

“Please?”

 

He doesn’t mean to give in. He really, really doesn’t. Especially when there’s absolutely nothing in it for him except watching Harry get off and perhaps tiring him out enough to get him to stopping calling Louis _Daddy._

 

He sighs. What the hell? He can play along; he’s running out of reasons why he shouldn’t. Harry is drunk but not enough that he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. They’ve done this before, it’s not new. Louis made the mistake last night, already ruined their friendship. Is one more sexual interaction really going to make things that much worse?

 

“Get on the bed,” Louis orders. Whatever. He can do this. He can step up, be a little harsher than usual, let Harry call him Daddy, fuck him hard and harder still. What does it even matter at this point?

 

The speed at which Harry complies is embarrassing for Harry, exposing how desperate he is. He lies back on his forearms and spreads his legs wide like he’s inviting Louis in. And god, does Louis want to go. The red lace is sheer enough that he can see everything, and it’s tempting as hell.

 

He’s here to prove a point, though. Maybe even to be a little condescending. Harry seems like he likes that.

 

“Touch yourself,” Louis orders, taking a seat on the bed but not getting close. He can’t believe he’s doing this, but here he is, on the end of the bed, looking coldly at his roommate who’s wearing nothing more but red lace and begging for Louis to fuck him. Insane.

 

“Show me how, Daddy.”

 

“No,” he counters, “you’re doing this all on your own. Stick your hand down your panties and start stroking.”

 

“No lube?”

 

“You said you wanted it to hurt.”

 

Harry whimpers pathetically but he doesn’t argue, instead following orders and slowly dragging his hand down his front, tweaking a nipple on the way there. He’s playing coy, acting like he’s never done this before, which is actually filthy when Louis thinks about the amount of times he has probably had sex. Maybe even more than Louis, which is definitely saying something.

 

After a while of watching Harry just stroking his shaft, writhing at the feeling already, Louis gives him a new task. “Touch the tip.”

 

“But it’s sensitive, Daddy,” he whines, still stroking languidly, not hard or fast enough to get anywhere worth going. That won’t do. Louis wants this over as soon as possible.

 

“Touch the tip,” Louis repeats, just as forcefully, leaving no room for rebuttal this time.

 

Harry complies, rubbing his thumb over the slit. He flinches at the first touch, which proves he wasn’t lying about being extremely sensitive. But he keeps doing it, rubbing his thumb back and forth until he’s moaning with it, unconsciously rocking his hips forward, his body looking for more.

 

Louis doesn’t give it to him. He orders Harry to go back to stroking himself, this time rubbing his thumb over his slit with each upward movement. This has him writhing over the bed, whimpering and whining for more, more, more, always more. Louis watches his distress, feeling powerful.

 

He has never felt like this before. He never really thought he’d be into dominance play, or age play, or whatever the fuck Harry’s into, but just this little taste of it has Louis wanting more too. There’s a certain calmness to being in control, and having his partner be so willing to do whatever he says, struggling to please, no matter what.

 

There’s something special about someone trusting him enough to take care of him, that they relinquish all control and give it to Louis instead…

 

He used to think he was more of a bottom, and has bottomed in almost every relationship he’s ever been in. But he doesn’t think he would mind topping Harry. In fact he thinks he would enjoy it very much.

 

“Daddy, please-”

 

“Lick your hand.”

 

Harry obliges, licking it well and good, all the while watching Louis for further instruction.

 

“Now go harder.”

 

Harry whines but does this too, following orders without question. He speeds up his hand, squeezing harder, rubbing at the tip harder. It’s making him gasp and moan and whine, each time louder than the last. His skin is turning splotchy red but it’s beautiful on him, all rosy cheeks and flushed skin.

 

At this point, Louis is palming himself through his joggers. He can’t help it, doesn’t want to help it. Last night was different because as arousing as it was, he was just fucking Harry to keep him sated enough that he wouldn’t leave and go searching for trouble. Now, though, knowing that Harry wants this again for a second time and that it wasn’t just a one-time thing, Louis feels okay enough to join in a little bit. All the emphasis is still on getting Harry off, of course, but he doesn’t feel like a pervert for touching himself if he knows Harry wants this too.

 

“Don’t slow down,” Louis tells him when he sees him getting tired and closer to his orgasm. “Go faster.”

 

“I can’t take it, Daddy,” Harry cries, and that’s when Louis notices the tears in his eyes again. Does he always cry during sex? That’s such a Harry thing to do, Louis thinks mindlessly, as he catalogues Harry’s face and how beautiful he looks when he’s moaning, lips parted, tears slipping down his cheeks. Hand in his lacy red underwear. Skin flushed from exertion. Dick hard and leaking all over his hand.

 

“You have to, baby. You’re not allowed to stop.”

 

Harry gasps, working his hand faster, crying louder. His other hand is clutching at the sheets, twisting them between his fingers, grasping at them with a death grip as he comes, nearly screaming. Come shoots into his panties and gets on his stomach, much more contained than last time due to the help of the fabric but still a mess. His movements slow to a stop and he squeezes his eyes shut, panting heavily, body still clenched and squirming from his orgasm.

 

“Did I say you could stop?”

 

“What?” Harry gasps, eyes blinking open. His hand is covered in come and resting on his stomach, but when he sees the way Louis is looking at him he wraps it around his softening dick again and strokes, hissing in pain but forcing himself to keep doing it. “Ohh, oh Louis…”

 

“That’s alright baby, you’re doing lovely,” Louis sighs, petting Harry’s thigh, rubbing soothingly back and forth. “You’re doing great, keep going. Let’s see if we can get another orgasm out of you.”

 

“I can’t,” Harry sobs, “I can’t do it…”

 

“You can and you will.”

 

“Daddy… Fuck, Daddy, it hurts so much, oh god, oh god, oh god…”

 

“You’re okay, love, you’re doing great. You’re almost there, just a little more.”

 

Harry’s eyes roll back a little bit but he keeps working his hand fast and hard over himself, tangled in red lace but still managing. He’s an absolute mess, with sweat covering his entire body in a thin sheen that makes him glow, and come already coating his stomach and his hand, dripping down his wrist. His hair is a mess too, from rolling around and writhing on the bed, tangling the curls into a bird’s nest.

 

Louis watches in slight fascination as Harry gets hard again, just moments after coming. For men, overstimulation isn’t a pleasurable thing, so he’s surprised Harry is taking it so well. Obviously it isn’t comfortable, but he’s also getting off on it if the way his dick fills right back up again is any indication, which it definitely is.

 

He’s getting closer now, panting heavily, muscles tense, face scrunched up in a strange duality of pain and pleasure. He rocks his hips a little, fucking up into his fast-moving hand, crying out every time his fingers graze over the tip every time he thrusts.

 

“Daddy… Louis…”

 

“It’s okay, babe. You’re okay. Let go.”

 

And he does, as if Louis’ permission is what he needed to come again. There’s much less this time, and it drips down his hand, onto the bed. Looks like they’re sharing the other bed tonight, then.

 

He keeps moving his hand though, gasping and hissing with the sensation as he tries and fails to catch his breath. Louis realizes he’s still jerking off because the last time he finished, Louis reprimanded him for taking his hand away.

 

So Louis grabs his wrist which is wet and dripping with come, and gently pulls it away from where he’s stroking at himself, hand tangled in red lace. “You’re alright baby,” Louis soothes, “all finished. You did so well.”

 

Harry groans, curling his body up and turning onto his side, unmoving. Louis drops his wrist and leans over him to make sure he’s okay.

 

“Alright, kiddo?”

 

“Fuck, that was intense.”

 

“Was I too rough?”

 

“I dunno. Maybe.”

 

“Shit,” Louis mutters, moving closer to Harry and realizing he’s shaking. Like full-out trembling, entire body shivering. “What can I do to make it better?”

 

“I dunno. Can we cuddle?”

 

“Of course,” Louis answers worriedly, sliding down on his side and wrapping his body around Harry’s. He wraps his arms around him, wiggling one underneath his neck and winding the other around his waist, pressing a palm flat to his chest to feel his rapidly beating heart. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Why are you sorry?”

 

“I’ve never done this before. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

 

“You’re really good at it though. You’re a natural.”

 

“But I made you all- shaky,” Louis argues. “I made you cry.”

 

Harry laughs a little, sniffling. “That means it was good. Stop worrying.”

 

“You said it was too much, though.”

 

“A little. I dunno, I kind of need to prepare a bit for overstimulation. I like it, but sometimes it’s a little too painful.”

 

“Oh. I’m sorry about that, then.”

 

“We just need to communicate better, ‘s all. Like we can go over kinks and boundaries, discuss a safe word, all that.”

 

“This isn’t happening again.”

 

Harry tenses noticeably in his arms. “What?”

 

“I’m not having sex with you again.”

 

“Oh.” His voice turns colder. “We didn’t even have sex.”

 

Louis hooks his chin on Harry’s shoulder and holds him tighter. “Whatever this is, we’re not doing it again.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I’m not becoming fuck buddies with my roommate.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I’m not about shit like that anymore. Not fucking anyone I’m not in a serious relationship with anymore.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“You sound like a broken record. And you know why, asshole. I cried to you about it.”

 

“Oh. That was a while ago.”

 

“It was. We hardly knew each other.”

 

Harry’s quiet for a moment, but it seems like he has more to say.

 

So Louis asks. “What is it?”

 

“I just don’t get why that means you won’t do friends with benefits.”

 

“Because I’ve sworn off casual sex.”

 

“But like, we could make it formal sex.”

 

Louis laughs. “And how would we do that, little one?”

 

“Like if we come up with rules and stuff. Formal rules. Or like, quotas. Requirements. For when we have sex.”

 

“What does that even entail?”

 

“Like maybe one of the rules is that we have to have penetrative sex once a week. Or another is that I give you a blowjob whenever you want. Stuff like that.”

 

Louis doesn’t believe him. “Is that what you really want?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry admits quietly. “I want that. With you.”

 

Now Louis really doesn’t believe him. He sighs and holds Harry even closer, wondering when he stepped through a portal to an alternate universe where Harry wants him so much like this. “You must be exhausted, H. You should go to sleep.”

 

“Don’t dismiss me.”

 

“What do you want me to say?”

 

“I want you to at least consider my offer.”

 

It’s easier to have this conversation now because even though they’re close, they’re not facing each other. Harry is staring at the blank wall and Louis is staring at his shoulder. For some reason that makes it better.

 

“Fine. If you still want it tomorrow, I’ll consider it.”

 

“Okay. Thank you. I can live with that.”

 

“Alrighty then. Go to sleep.”

 

“I need to shower.”

 

“Want some company?”

 

“I’d rather be alone, I think.”

 

It doesn’t seem like a good idea to leave Harry alone but Louis allows it anyways. “Don’t be gone too long,” he says, already getting comfortable in the spot where Harry left. He closes his eyes, and he’s out like a light, still hard in his pants.

  
  


…

  
  


It must say something that Harry has a nightmare later that evening, or perhaps early the next morning. Four o’clock is a tricky time to categorize.

 

The time doesn’t matter. What matters is that Harry is writhing around in bed again, but this time not due to pleasure. He’s screaming in a bad way. Begging for it to stop.

 

He’s in the other bed, too, which Louis doesn’t understand. He was supposed to slide into bed with Louis after his shower. For some reason this is what Louis decides to focus on in this moment. Then he realizes he’s being ridiculous and stumbles out of bed to help Harry.

 

It doesn’t take long to wake him up this time, thank God, Louis thinks.

 

“I was a child,” Harry is saying, over and over again and Louis gets it. He really does but he wishes he didn’t. “I was a child.”

 

“You’re okay, honey… It’s okay. You’re safe here. You’re safe.”

 

Harry screams and cries into the sheets and it’s heartbreaking to watch. Louis strokes his back and pets his hair and holds him through it. What else is there to do?

 

“I hate this so much,” he sobs. “I hate what they did to me.”

 

“I know, baby. I know. You’re safe now though. You’re safe here with me.”

 

“Please don’t leave me. I’m so scared.”

 

“I’m here, love. You’re safe.” Louis rubs his back some more and pulls him up on his lap. Harry curls into him, and his cries slowly lessen with time. “Come here, baby. You’re okay here. You’re safe here.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Lou.”

 

“Don’t be sorry, there’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re fine. It’s okay.”

 

“How can you even stand to be near me?” he wails, pressing his face into Louis’ shirt again. It’s wet from tears now, but Louis doesn’t mind as long ass it means he can make sure Harry is okay, firsthand.

 

“You’re lovely, H. I care about you a lot. I’m not just gonna leave when things get tough.”

 

It’s a while longer before the crying dies down and Louis is so exhausted but it’s worth it for the sake of protecting Harry from whatever is tearing him apart from inside his mind. Harry is sprawled out over his lap, clinging to his waist and breathing in deeply, trying to slow the rhythm of his inhales and exhales per Louis’ suggestion. He’s shaking still and Louis wishes he could say his touch calms him but surely it doesn’t do anything, really, except let him know that Louis is there for him.

 

“Will you sing to me?” Harry asks eventually, when he’s more sleepy than he is scared, and his eyes keep slipping closed for long moments where he sighs and burrows further into Louis’ hold.

 

“Of course,” Louis agrees, rubbing circles on his upper back. “Can I have a cigarette first?”

 

“Only if I can come with you.”

 

“Alright, but you have to get up and put some clothes on then.” He’s only wearing shorts, nothing else, but he obliges silently, shuffling off the bed and over to his suitcase to pull out a random pair of pajama pants, a hoodie, and some wool socks.

 

Since there’s no balcony attached to their hotel room and the windows don’t open, they head downstairs to the lobby and step outside for a moment while Louis lights up.

 

“Want one?”

 

Harry shakes his head, smiling softly and resting his head on Louis’ shoulder. “I’m okay.”

 

So they stand there in the hotel parking lot in the middle of Illinois in silence, resting against each other, and Louis feels closer to Harry than he ever has before. Something has changed during their time on this road trip, and of course some of it has to do with the fact that Louis has coaxed multiple orgasms out of Harry, but if he’s being honest with himself this change has been happening for a while now. Every day they spend together brings them close and closer still.

 

Louis stares at the glow of his cigarette, like a red sun in the dark night, and it slowly dawns on him.

 

“Hey, Harry?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

He hesitates, but ultimately agrees uneasily. “Sure.”  


“You don’t have to answer,” Louis amends. “If it’s too personal just tell me to fuck off.”

 

“Alright…”

 

“So, um, two nights ago, when we were- I mean, when I was-” He doesn’t know how to say it.

 

Harry laughs a little but it feels stunted. “You mean when you were fucking me with your fingers?”

 

“Um, right. So when we were doing that I couldn’t help but notice your thighs, and like the little scars. And I was wondering if they were from cigarettes?”

 

Harry doesn’t physically recoil. He stays right where he is and lets Louis keep his arm around his waist as they don’t face each other, just stare out at the parking lot and beyond, to the highway and the empty fields of farmland.

 

“You’re right, they are.”

 

It’s coming together but Louis still has to ask. “How did that happen?”

 

Harry smiles but it’s bitter and hollow like his laugh the other day and it hurts like a shot to the heart but Louis tries not to let his fear show.

 

“My father has an affinity for burning things.”

 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “And he would do that to you?”

 

“All the damn time.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“When he first started? Too young to remember.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“When I was older, I probably would have fended him off, but he would just go after someone else. The dog, or some shit. I’d rather it just be me. Like I said, I like the smell of cigarettes.”

 

“Why, though?”

 

Harry’s smiling at him again. “Because they smell like you.”

 

Louis stares at him. That sure as hell doesn’t make sense. Still, he gives in. “That’s sweet of you.”

 

Maybe it’s the idea that Harry likes what’s bad for him, like abusive boyfriends, rough sex, and burning cigarettes. Is Louis included in that list? Is Louis bad for him?

 

“It’s hard, because obviously they remind me of him. And like, they’re scars, so they’ll never really go away.”

 

Louis nods along, squeezing Harry’s waist. Maybe he is bad for him, hell if he knows. But they feel so right together, no matter how fucked up it is. “They’re like battle scars, though. Proof that you survived.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Has anyone else ever asked about them?”

 

“Is that your roundabout way of trying to figure out who I’ve had sex with?”

 

“Definitely not. That’s not my business.”

 

“Damn right it’s not. But surprisingly, no. If anyone even noticed, they never asked.”

 

“Huh. Why on your thighs, by the way?”

 

“So no one would see, I guess. And he knows it’s like… embarrassing, I guess, or shameful, because it’s like, a personal area, some place that’s supposed to be private. But he’s everywhere. I can never escape him.”

 

Louis stubs out his cigarette, crushing it beneath his shoe. Sick of the cold, he grabs Harry by the hand and pulls him back inside. “And we’re seeing him tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“When was the last time you saw him?”

 

“Before I left for college.”

 

“So like, three years ago?”

 

“Right.”

 

“If he… If he had the chance to abuse you again, would he?”

 

Harry laughs a little, but Louis fails to see the humor. “He’d try to kill me, probably.”

 

“And do you dissociate around him? Or turn really submissive?”

 

“Probably, yeah.”

 

“Alright. Then let’s try to keep you away from him, yeah? Will you stay away from him at least when you’re alone so you’re never one-on-one with him?”

 

“Why?”  


“Because I’m worried about you. I want you to be safe.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You promise?”

 

Harry nods. “For you.”

 

“Say that you promise.”

 

He’s is still smiling at him like he knows something Louis doesn’t. “I promise.”

 

They go back to their room and get back into bed, this time together. Louis lies on his side while Harry curls up and wraps himself around a pillow. He sings Harry to sleep, fighting to not fall asleep himself until he’s sure Harry is out.

 

 _Listen,_ Louis thinks, as he stares at the calm expression on Harry’s face as he sleeps. _The more I get to know you, the lovelier you are, and the worse it hurts to think of what they did to you._

 

_You didn’t deserve any of it._

 

_I would keep you safe if I could._

  
  


…

  
  


“In retrospect it wasn’t that bad,” Harry says the next morning at breakfast, with nothing but a cup of untouched black coffee in front of him. “A lot worse has happened to so many other people and they’re fine. Like I feel like they’re justified in being traumatized. But for me, it’s like, why am I so freaked out from being yelled at a lot and occasionally hit or burned?”

 

Louis stares at him dully. “Don’t even bullshit me, Harry. Your trauma is real. You’re justified in your reactions.”

 

“But I just feel like I’m faking it.”

 

“You’re not, H, and that’s okay.”

 

“I just feel like I’m whining about shit that wasn’t even that bad.”

 

“Newsflash, Harry: it was that bad. You’re not whining about it—you hardly even talk about it. In fact I wish you would talk about it more so I would know what’s going on sometimes.”

 

Harry doesn’t respond. He stares at his steaming coffee and doesn’t drink it. Louis sighs, spears a slice of pineapple with his fork, and offers it to him.

 

“You have to eat something.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

Louis pushes the pineapple up against his lips anyways, jokingly. Harry retracts, rolling his eyes, but leans in eventually and eats it anyways. He lets Louis feed him a few more slices until they’re laughing uncontrollably at how ridiculous they’re acting.

 

“Better?”

 

“A little.”

 

“What do you want to do today?”

 

“Die.”

 

Louis levels him with another unimpressed look. “Be serious, Harry.”

 

“Fine. I wanna have sex with you.”

 

“Straight to the point, nice. Your brazenness is very admirable. And you’re insane, by the way.”

 

“What else are we gonna do?”

 

“There are a million alternatives. We can do literally anything and you choose to say sex.”

 

“I’m being honest. And you said if I brought it up today we can talk about it. So.”

 

He’s not wrong. Louis groans, hitting his head against the table. People from other tables innocently eating breakfast look over at them but he doesn’t care. Eventually he stops and looks back up at Harry. “Fine.”

 

“What’s fine?”

 

“If you really want, we can talk about it.”

 

Harry grins at him. “Nice. So I was thinking we can work out a deal since I want to have regular sex and you don’t seem to like when I do it with strangers, so.”

 

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Louis argues, probably a bit too defensive. Afraid of giving himself away, he doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

 

“Exactly. So if we do this together, I get what I want and you get what you want. Mutually beneficial. It works out.”

 

“Not to be rude, Harry, but I feel like you haven’t thought much about what I want. Like, obviously yeah sure I get to know that you’re safe and not just offering yourself up to random strangers or whatever, but like. I already told you, I’m not into casual sex anymore.”

 

“And I said it doesn’t have to be casual. It can be formal. We can draw up some rules and everything, right now.”

 

“By casual sex I don’t mean sex without rules, H. I mean sex without feelings.”

 

Harry frowns and doesn’t seem to have a response ready. He thinks about it for a little bit. “It wouldn’t be without feelings, though. I like you, and you care for me. There you go. Feelings.”

 

“You’re really trying hard to make this work, aren’t you?”

 

“Like I said, I like you, and I like sex.”

 

“Remember when you were just my quiet roommate? I miss those days.”

 

“You don’t. You like me now. You like when we talk.”

 

He isn’t wrong. Louis spears another piece of pineapple and shoves it past Harry’s lips. The way Harry eats it is obscene. It’s even worse when he licks his lips afterward. Not Louis’ best idea, after all.

 

“You’re insane.”

 

Harry grins at him. “You say that a lot. You should see me in bed, though.”

 

“I have,” Louis hisses.

 

“So it shouldn’t be a big deal, then. We’ve already done it.”

 

“Harry, stop. I can’t believe you’re just talking about it like this.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re saying no to me.”

 

“You’re awful.”

 

“So my idea was that we both get at least one orgasm each day. Penetrative sex at least three times a week, so it’s something special but not totally rare. One of those three times I get to ride you. The non-penetrative days include blowjobs, handjobs, and eating each other out. Also-”

 

“If you say the word ‘penetrative’ one more time, I’m leaving.”

 

“Also,” Harry continues, louder, ignoring Louis’ comment, “we need to discuss kinks. How do you feel about choking?”

 

“We’re not doing this right now.”

 

“So we’ll do it later, then.”

 

“I’m going up to the room.”

 

“Okay, cool.”

 

When Louis stands up, Harry does too. Harry follows him to the garbage can where they throw out their trash and set their dishes in the receptacle. He follows him to the elevator too, and all the way up to the room. When Louis lies down on the bed to take a nap, Harry does the same, except he doesn’t plan on taking a nap.

 

“So I made a list on my phone of everything we need to discuss. It’s kind of like a survey and I think we should both fill it out on our own and then compare, so we can really be honest then. I’ll send it to you.”

 

“If I fill it out will you leave me alone?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Louis sighs and pulls out his phone. In a minute he receives a very lengthy text. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

“You categorize each kink as yes, maybe, or no. It’s like, something you want to do, something you’re not the biggest fan of but willing to try, and something you never wanna do no matter what. And then at the end we compare our lists and do the things we have in common.”

 

Louis sighs. Okay, sure, whatever, he’ll humor Harry.

 

“Woah, H, this is really long.”

 

“Yeah, I googled it and tried to find one that covers all the bases. Also, I forgot, there’s one more option, called ‘fantasy,’ and you use that if it’s something you like to think about but don’t actually want to do.”

 

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and sighs again. Harry is already ten questions in, working diligently. He sits up and decides to just go for it.

 

 

  * __A partner touching me affectionately without asking me first - YES__
  * _Touching a partner affectionately without asking first - YES_
  * _A partner touching me sexually without asking me first -YES_
  * _Touching a partner sexually without asking first - NO_
  * _A partner touching me affectionately in public - YES_
  * _Touching a partner affectionately in public - YES_
  * _A partner touching me sexually in public - MAYBE_
  * _Touching a partner sexually in public - MAYBE_
  * _Being naked around a partner - YES_
  * _A partner being naked around me - YES_
  * _Direct eye contact - YES_
  * _Being looked at directly, overall, when I am naked - YES_



 

 

Louis pauses. He thought most of these things were givens in terms of sexual relationships. He supposes that maybe they aren’t, and maybe some people aren’t okay with these things. He gets it, he really does. It’s kind of nice to know that some people think about these things and won’t do them if they make their partner uncomfortable.

 

He continues on.

 

  * _A partner talking about my body - YES_
  * _Talking about my partner’s body -YES_
  * _Seeing or being exposed to other kinds of body fluids (semen, sweat, urine, etc.) - YES_
  * _Some parts of my body are off limits. Those are: _________
  * _I am not comfortable looking at, touching, or feeling some parts of another person’s body. Those are: _________
  * _I am triggered by (having post-traumatic response to) something(s) about body boundaries. Those are: _________



 

There’s a blank space and Louis thinks long and hard about it, wondering if there are any parts of his body he wouldn’t want a sexual partner to touch. He can’t come up with any. He wonders what Harry has said, if he left it blank too or wrote something down. He supposes he’ll find out soon.

 

_Words and Terms:_

 

  * __I prefer the following gender/sexual identity or role words to be used for me: HE/HIM, MALE, MAN__
  * _I prefer my chest or breasts to be referred to as:_



 

Louis pauses again, unsure. Is this a thing?

 

 

  * __I prefer my sexual orientation and/or identity to be referred to as: GAY__
  * _Some words I am not okay wiht to refer to me, my identity, my body, or which I am uncomfortable using or hearing about, with or during any kind of sex are: faggot, fairy, any derogatory term._
  * _I am triggered by certain words or language. Those are: _________



 

 

_Relationship Models and Choices:_

 

  * __A partner talking to close friends about our sex life - YES__
  * _Talking to close friends about my sex life - YES_
  * _A partner talking to acquaintances, family, or co-workers about our sex life - MAYBE_
  * _Talking to acquaintances, family, or co-workers about my sex life - NO_
  * _An exclusive romantic relationship - MAYBE_



 

 

He wants to say yes, but Harry wants casual sex, so he doesn’t know what to do and just leaves it as ‘maybe.’

 

“Hey Harry?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Is this supposed to be what I want in general, or in terms of a sexual relationship with just you?”

 

“Umm, do it in general. Like what you would have with your ideal partner.”

 

“Okay.” Louis changes number five from maybe to yes.

 

 

  * __An exclusive sexual relationship - YES__
  * _Sex of some kind(s) with one partner at a time, only - YES_
  * _Sex of some kind(s) with two partners at a time - NO_
  * _Sex of some kind(s) with three or more partners at a time - NO_
  * _A partner directing or deciding for me in some way with sex - NO_
  * _Directing or deciding for a partner in some way with sex - YES_



 

 

_Safer Sex and Overall Safety Items and Behaviors:_

 

  * __Sharing my sexual history with a partner - YES__
  * _A partner sharing their sexual history with me - YES_
  * _Doing anything sexual which might pose high risks of certain or all sexually transmitted infections (STIs) - NO_
  * _Doing anything sexual which might pose low risks of certain or all sexually transmitted infections (STIs) - MAYBE_
  * _Using a condom with a partner, always - MAYBE_
  * _Using a condom with a partner, not always - YES_
  * _Putting on a condom myself - YES_
  * _Putting on a condom for someone else - YES_
  * _Someone else putting on a condom for me - YES_
  * _Using a latex glove with a partner, always - NO_
  * _Using a latex glove with a partner, not always - MAYBE_
  * _Using lubricant with a partner - YES_
  * _Applying lubricant to myself - YES_
  * _Applying lubricant on a partner - YES_
  * _Someone else putting lubricant on me - YES_
  * _Getting regularly tested for STIs with a partner - MAYBE_
  * _Sharing STI test results with a partner - YES_
  * _Doing things which might cause me momentary or minor discomfort or pain - MAYBE_
  * _Doing things which might cause a partner momentary or minor discomfort or pain - YES_
  * _Doing things which might cause me sustained or major discomfort or pain - NO_
  * _Doing things which might cause a partner sustained or major discomfort or pain - NO_
  * _Being unable to communicate clearly during sex - NO_
  * _Having a partner be unable to communicate clearly during sex - MAYBE_
  * _Initiating or having sex while or after I have been using alcohol or other recreational drugs - MAYBE_
  * _A partner initiating or having sex while or after I have been using alcohol or other recreational drugs - MAYBE_
  * _I am triggered by something(s) around sexual safety, or need additional safety precautions because of triggers. Those are/that is: ___________



 

 

_Sexual Responses:_

 

  * __Feeling and being aroused, alone - YES__
  * _Feeling and being aroused, in front of or around a partner - YES_
  * _Having a genital response, such as erection or lubrication, seen or felt by a partner - YES_
  * _Not having or “losing” erection or lubrication in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Being unable to reach orgasm in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Having one orgasm in front of  partner - YES_
  * _Having more than one orgasm in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Ejaculating, with or in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Having a partner ejaculate with me/while I’m present - YES_
  * _Having an orgasm before or after I feel like I “should” in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Having a partner have an orgasm before or after I feel like they “should” - YES_
  * _Making noise during sex or orgasm with a partner - YES_
  * _Having sex interrupted by something or someone external or your own body or feelings - YES_
  * _I am triggered by certain sexual responses of my own or those of a partner. Those are: NONE_
  * _I like or don’t like having or giving certain kinds of sexual aftercare (like snuggling or reaffirming emotional feelings). Those are: I’M WILLING TO GIVE ANY KIND OF AFTERCARE NEEDED BY MY PARTNER_



 

 

_Physical and/or Sexual Activities:_

 

  * __Masturbation - YES__
  * _Holding hands - YES_
  * _Hugging - YES_
  * _Kissing, cheek or face - YES_
  * _Kissing, closed-mouth - YES_
  * _Kissing, open-mouth - YES_
  * _Being kissed or touched on the neck - YES_
  * _Kissing or touching a partner’s neck - YES_
  * _Giving hickeys - YES_
  * _Getting hickeys - YES_
  * _Tickling, doing the tickling - YES_
  * _Tickling, being tickled - NO_
  * _Wrestling or “play-fighting” - YES_
  * _General massage, giving - YES_
  * _General massage, receiving - YES_
  * _Having my chest, breasts, and/or nipples touched or rubbed - YES_
  * _Touching or rubbing a partner’s chest, breasts, and/or nipples - YES_
  * _Frottage (dry humping/clothed body-to-body rubbing) - YES_
  * _Tribadism (scissoring, rubbing naked genitals together with a partner) - YES_
  * _A partner putting their mouth or tongue on my chest - YES_
  * _Putting my mouth or tongue on a partner’s chest - YES_
  * _Masturbating in front of/with a partner - YES_
  * _A partner masturbating in front of/with me - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on penis), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on penis), receiving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on testes), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on testes), receiving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on or around anus), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on or around anus), receiving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers inside rectum), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers inside rectum), receiving - YES_
  * _Ejaculating on or in a partner’s body - YES_
  * _A partner ejaculating on or in my body - YES_
  * _Using sex toys (like vibrators, dildos, or masturbation sleeves) with a partner - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to penis), giving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to penis), receiving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to testes), giving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to testes), receiving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to anus), giving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to anus), receiving - YES_
  * _Anal intercourse, giving - YES_
  * _Anal intercourse, receiving - MAYBE_
  * _Using food items as a part of sex - MAYBE_
  * _Cross-dressing during sex - NO_
  * _Having a partner cross-dress during sex - MAYBE_
  * _Biting a partner - YES_
  * _Being bitten by a partner - YES_
  * _Scratching a partner - MAYBE_
  * _Being scratched by a partner - YES_
  * _Wearing something that covers my eyes - NO_
  * _A partner wearing something that covers their eyes - YES_
  * _Having my movement restricted - NO_
  * _Restricting the movement of a partner - YES_
  * _Being slapped or spanked by a partner in the context of sexual pleasure - NO_
  * _Slapping or spanking a partner in the context of sexual pleasure - YES_
  * _Pinching or having any kind of clamp used on my body during sex - NO_
  * _Pinching a partner or using any kind of clamp on them during sex - YES_
  * _Activities that leave marks, giving - YES_
  * _Activities that leave marks, receiving - MAYBE_
  * _Using paddles, floggers, whips, crops, canes, etc. - MAYBE_
  * _Having paddles, floggers, whips, crops, canes, etc. used on me - NO_
  * _I am triggered by certain sexual activities. Those are: NONE_



 

 

_Non-physical (or not necessarily physical) Sexual Activities:_

 

  * __Communicating my sexual fantasies to/with a partner - YES__
  * _Receiving information about a partner’s sexual fantasies - YES_
  * _Dirty talk - YES_
  * _Roleplay - MAYBE_
  * _Phone sex - YES_
  * _Cybersex, on cellphone - MAYBE_
  * _Receiving sexual pictures of my partner on my phone - NO!_
  * _Sending sexual pictures of my partner to their phone - NO!_
  * _Reading pornography or erotica with a partner - NO_
  * _Viewing pornography with a partner - MAYBE_
  * _I am triggered by certain non-physical sexual activities. Those are: SENDING NUDES VIA TEXT OR SNAPCHAT_



 

 

“Christ, that was long.”

 

“I know, right?”

 

“I never knew sex could be so extensive.”

 

“Shall we compare?”

 

“I guess. Let’s just focus on the differences, so we don’t spend like ten years going over it.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

Louis takes Harry’s phone and scrolls through his answers, noting the ways in which they differ from his own.

 

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: For the ease of the reader, the **bolded** statements are the ones in which Louis and Harry’ answers _differ_ from each other.)

  


 

  * __A partner touching me affectionately without asking me first - YES__
  * _Touching a partner affectionately without asking first - YES_
  * _A partner touching me sexually without asking me first -YES_
  * **_Touching a partner sexually without asking first - YES_**
  * _A partner touching me affectionately in public - YES_
  * _Touching a partner affectionately in public - YES_
  * **_A partner touching me sexually in public - YES_**
  * **_Touching a partner sexually in public - YES_**
  * _Being naked around a partner - YES_
  * _A partner being naked around me - YES_
  * _Direct eye contact - YES_
  * _Being looked at directly, overall, when I am naked - YES_
  * _A partner talking about my body - YES_
  * _Talking about my partner’s body -YES_
  * _Seeing or being exposed to other kinds of body fluids (semen, sweat, urine, etc.) - YES_
  * **_Some parts of my body are off limits. Those are: Inner thighs… Not exactly off limits, but they’re sensitive and sometimes it’s not okay to touch them._**
  * _I am not comfortable looking at, touching, or feeling some parts of another person’s body. Those are: _________
  * **_I am triggered by (having post-traumatic response to) something(s) about body boundaries. Those are: Inner thighs!!! Be gentle and cautious please._**



 

_Words and Terms:_

 

  * __I prefer the following gender/sexual identity or role words to be used for me: HE/HIM, MALE, MAN__
  * _I prefer my chest or breasts to be referred to as:_
  * __I prefer my sexual orientation and/or identity to be referred to as: GAY__
  * **_Some words I am not okay with to refer to me, my identity, my body, or which I am uncomfortable using or hearing about, with or during any kind of sex are: any slurs!_**
  * **_I am triggered by certain words or language. Those are: See question #9_**



 

 

_Relationship Models and Choices:_

 

  * __A partner talking to close friends about our sex life - YES__
  * _Talking to close friends about my sex life - YES_
  * **_A partner talking to acquaintances, family, or co-workers about our sex life - YES_**
  * **_Talking to acquaintances, family, or co-workers about my sex life - MAYBE_**
  * _An exclusive romantic relationship - YES_
  * _An exclusive sexual relationship - YES_
  * _Sex of some kind(s) with one partner at a time, only - YES_
  * **_Sex of some kind(s) with two partners at a time - YES_**
  * **_Sex of some kind(s) with three or more partners at a time - YES_**
  * **_A partner directing or deciding for me in some way with sex - YES_**
  * **_Directing or deciding for a partner in some way with sex - NO_**



 

 

_Safer Sex and Overall Safety Items and Behaviors:_

 

  * __Sharing my sexual history with a partner - YES__
  * _A partner sharing their sexual history with me - YES_
  * **_Doing anything sexual which might pose high risks of certain or all sexually transmitted infections (STIs) - MAYBE_**
  * **_Doing anything sexual which might pose low risks of certain or all sexually transmitted infections (STIs) - YES_**
  * **_Using a condom with a partner, always - NO_**
  * **_Using a condom with a partner, not always - YES_**
  * _Putting on a condom myself - YES_
  * _Putting on a condom for someone else - YES_
  * _Someone else putting on a condom for me - YES_
  * _Using a latex glove with a partner, always - NO_
  * _Using a latex glove with a partner, not always - MAYBE_
  * _Using lubricant with a partner - YES_
  * _Applying lubricant to myself - YES_
  * _Applying lubricant on a partner - YES_
  * _Someone else putting lubricant on me - YES_
  * _Getting regularly tested for STIs with a partner - MAYBE_
  * _Sharing STI test results with a partner - YES_
  * **_Doing things which might cause me momentary or minor discomfort or pain - YES_**
  * **_Doing things which might cause a partner momentary or minor discomfort or pain - NO_**
  * **_Doing things which might cause me sustained or major discomfort or pain - YES_**
  * **_Doing things which might cause a partner sustained or major discomfort or pain - NO_**
  * **_Being unable to communicate clearly during sex - YES_**
  * **_Having a partner be unable to communicate clearly during sex - NO_**
  * **_Initiating or having sex while or after I have been using alcohol or other recreational drugs - YES_**
  * **_A partner initiating or having sex while or after I have been using alcohol or other recreational drugs - YES_**
  * **_I am triggered by something(s) around sexual safety, or need additional safety precautions because of triggers. Those are/that is: I know I have to have triggers… I just don’t know what they are. I guess we’ll find out!_**



 

 

_Sexual Responses:_

 

  * __Feeling and being aroused, alone - YES__
  * _Feeling and being aroused, in front of or around a partner - YES_
  * _Having a genital response, such as erection or lubrication, seen or felt by a partner - YES_
  * _Not having or “losing” erection or lubrication in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Being unable to reach orgasm in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Having one orgasm in front of  partner - YES_
  * _Having more than one orgasm in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Ejaculating, with or in front of a partner - YES_
  * _Having a partner ejaculate with me/while I’m present - YES_
  * **_Having an orgasm before or after I feel like I “should” in front of a partner - MAYBE_**
  * _Having a partner have an orgasm before or after I feel like they “should” - YES_
  * _Making noise during sex or orgasm with a partner - YES_
  * _Having sex interrupted by something or someone external or your own body or feelings - YES_
  * **_I am triggered by certain sexual responses of my own or those of a partner. Those are: Again… I know I must be triggered by something, I just don’t know what._**
  * **_I like or don’t like having or giving certain kinds of sexual aftercare (like snuggling or reaffirming emotional feelings). Those are: I like cuddling, massages, baths, lotions, treating wounds with proper medical attention, ice packs for soreness and bruises, words of affirmation, talking about the scene, taking naps, essentially feeling loved and cared for by my dom :)_**



 

 

_Physical and/or Sexual Activities:_

 

  * __Masturbation - YES__
  * _Holding hands - YES_
  * _Hugging - YES_
  * _Kissing, cheek or face - YES_
  * _Kissing, closed-mouth - YES_
  * _Kissing, open-mouth - YES_
  * _Being kissed or touched on the neck - YES_
  * _Kissing or touching a partner’s neck - YES_
  * _Giving hickeys - YES_
  * _Getting hickeys - YES_
  * **_Tickling, doing the tickling - MAYBE_**
  * **_Tickling, being tickled - YES_**
  * _Wrestling or “play-fighting” - YES_
  * _General massage, giving - YES_
  * _General massage, receiving - YES_
  * _Having my chest, breasts, and/or nipples touched or rubbed - YES_
  * _Touching or rubbing a partner’s chest, breasts, and/or nipples - YES_
  * _Frottage (dry humping/clothed body-to-body rubbing) - YES_
  * _Tribadism (scissoring, rubbing naked genitals together with a partner) - YES_
  * _A partner putting their mouth or tongue on my chest - YES_
  * _Putting my mouth or tongue on a partner’s chest - YES_
  * _Masturbating in front of/with a partner - YES_
  * _A partner masturbating in front of/with me - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on penis), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on penis), receiving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on testes), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on testes), receiving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on or around anus), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers on or around anus), receiving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers inside rectum), giving - YES_
  * _Manual sex (hands or fingers inside rectum), receiving - YES_
  * _Ejaculating on or in a partner’s body - YES_
  * _A partner ejaculating on or in my body - YES_
  * _Using sex toys (like vibrators, dildos, or masturbation sleeves) with a partner - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to penis), giving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to penis), receiving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to testes), giving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to testes), receiving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to anus), giving - YES_
  * _Oral sex (to anus), receiving - YES_
  * **_Anal intercourse, giving - MAYBE_**
  * **_Anal intercourse, receiving - YES!!!!!!! :) :) :)_**
  * **_Using food items as a part of sex - YES_**
  * **_Cross-dressing during sex - YES_**
  * _Having a partner cross-dress during sex - MAYBE_
  * _Biting a partner - YES_
  * _Being bitten by a partner - YES_
  * **_Scratching a partner - YES_**
  * _Being scratched by a partner - YES_
  * **_Wearing something that covers my eyes - YES_**
  * **_A partner wearing something that covers their eyes - NO_**
  * **_Having my movement restricted - YES_**
  * **_Restricting the movement of a partner - NO_**
  * **_Being slapped or spanked by a partner in the context of sexual pleasure - YES_**
  * **_Slapping or spanking a partner in the context of sexual pleasure - NO_**
  * **_Pinching or having any kind of clamp used on my body during sex - YES_**
  * **_Pinching a partner or using any kind of clamp on them during sex - NO_**
  * **_Activities that leave marks, giving - YES_**
  * **_Activities that leave marks, receiving - YES_**
  * **_Using paddles, floggers, whips, crops, canes, etc. - NO_**
  * **_Having paddles, floggers, whips, crops, canes, etc. used on me - YES_**
  * **_I am triggered by certain sexual activities. Those are: Burning… I like it sometimes, but sometimes it’s really triggering._**



 

 

_Non-physical (or not necessarily physical) Sexual Activities:_

 

  * __Communicating my sexual fantasies to/with a partner - YES__
  * _Receiving information about a partner’s sexual fantasies - YES_
  * _Dirty talk - YES_
  * **_Roleplay - YES!!!_**
  * _Phone sex - YES_
  * _Cybersex, on cell phone - YES_
  * **_Receiving sexual pictures of my partner on my phone - YES_**
  * **_Sending sexual pictures of my partner to their phone - YES_**
  * **_Reading pornography or erotica with a partner - MAYBE_**
  * **_Viewing pornography with a partner - YES_**
  * **_I am triggered by certain non-physical sexual activities. Those are: I like age play/Daddy kink but sometimes it’s triggering :(_**



 

  


“Okay,” Louis sighs, finally reaching the end. “Shall we discuss?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“So we’ll just start near the beginning. Umm, you said yes to sexual touching without asking first. I said no to that because consent is important to me and especially since I don’t want to hurt you or scare you I thought it would be good to ask first?”

 

“I see what you’re saying, but it’s okay with me. I trust you. If we agree to do this, my body is yours.” He smiles teasingly.

 

“Alright. You also said yes to touching sexually in public, and I said no I think. Or maybe. I’ve never really thought about it before. And how public would you be okay with?”

 

“It’s just something I’m kind of into, but it’s not that important.”

 

“Harry, now is your chance to tell me what you want because we’re literally negotiating our kinks right now, alright?”

 

“Just- I don’t know. Like in a public bathroom or something. Or on a balcony? Not too public, but enough that there’s a risk.”

 

“Okay. So would, say, a handjob in a restaurant be too much?”

 

Harry giggles and leans back on his forearms, looking up at the ceiling still smiling. “Is that something you want to try?”

 

Louis shrugs, smoothing out the sheets with his palm. “Just an example.”

 

“Yeah, that would be perfect. Like if we were in a dark corner or something and the server forgot about us.”

 

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind. Next, you said your inner thighs are sensitive and that sometimes it’s not okay to touch there. When is it not okay?”

 

“I don’t know, really… Sometimes I get in a bad headspace where I don’t like feeling vulnerable and it freaks me out because obviously that’s a vulnerable place and I have scars there, so.”

 

“Will you tell me when to not touch there, or should I just avoid your thighs in general?”

 

“I think I’ll be able to tell you. I don’t want you to have to avoid touching them.”

 

“Okay. I’ll definitely be gentle there anyways.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“So you said you were okay with me talking to family, friends, or acquaintances about our sex life, but you said maybe for you doing it with your family and such. I said maybe and no respectively.”

 

“Right. I meant that if you want to you can, and I don’t think I will but it doesn’t matter that much to me.”

 

“Okay. And you seem like a bit of an exhibitionist, so you probably like the thought of people talking about you like that, right?”

 

Harry laughs, “Yeah, I do.”

 

“Ummm, the next one… You said yes to having sex with two partners at once, and yes to three or more partners at once..?”

 

Harry blushes, covering his face in his hands. “I did.”

 

“I said no to both,” Louis adds, eyebrows raised at the thought that Harry has a gangbang fantasy. Unexpected and definitely interesting.

 

“Yeah, that’s fine, let’s move on.”

 

Louis smiles at him. “I’ll change my answers to ‘maybe,’ just for you. Okay, next we have the one about a high risk of STI’s. Um, I don’t know exactly what that entails but I’m hoping we’ll be as safe as possible.”

 

“Agreed. I didn’t know what to say for that one either.”

 

“The next one is about condoms. I said maybe to not using a condom all the time and you said yes.”

 

“Yeah, um, that’s something I want to do but once we both get tested, obviously.”

 

“Alright, neat. Next is… things that caused pain. I said maybe to administering momentary and minor pain, and no to everything else. You said yes to receiving both momentary, minor pain and sustained, major pain. Which means you have a pain kink, I’m assuming?”

 

It makes a lot of sense, of course, for Harry to get off on pain. It’s definitely one of the reasons why he keeps going back to Roman but it doesn’t explain why he’s always sobbing for hours afterwards, all bruised and beaten up.

 

Louis wonders, too, if his affinity for pain is a result of his trauma, or just a part of who he is.

 

“Yeah, it’s something that I… really like, I guess.”

 

“Okay,” Louis nods, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his chest right now. “Have you ever had like a sexual agreement with an actual dom, or like, sadist, I guess?”

 

“I haven’t. But I want to try it.”

 

“Alright. So then in terms of whips and paddles and such, you’ve never tried any of that before?”

 

“No. But I want to.”

 

Louis nods, scanning down the list. “Alright, moving on. You said yes to being unable to communicate during sex. What do you mean by that?”

 

“So, like, gags, or having my face pressed into the bed, or being ordered to not make a sound. Or like, if I’m getting my face fucked, ideally I wouldn’t be able to speak. Stuff like that.”

 

“Okay. So that definitely has the added danger of you not being able to use a safe word in case you feel uncomfortable and want to slow down or stop. If we do that, we’ll have to come up with a way to signal that, you know? Like you can pinch me or something.”

 

“That won’t work if my hands are bound, though.”

 

“Right, okay. We’ll figure something out. Next is initiating sex while drunk or high. You said yes to you initiating it and me initiating it. I said maybe to both, again due to consent concerns. I’m not gonna lie, the past two nights have made me a bit uncomfortable and I feel guilty, like I’m taking advantage of you because you were drinking and I wasn’t.”

 

“I wanted it, though. I mean clearly, I want it.”

 

“I’d feel better if you consented while sober.”

 

“Okay, fine. We can do that.”

 

“Good. Umm, so here you wrote that you know you have triggers but you don’t know what they are.”

 

“Yeah… So sometimes it’s very difficult for me to identify my triggers because it feels like there’s no rhyme or reason to them. I don’t know, really. Sometimes they just pop up and when I hadn’t known they existed.”

 

“So what should we do about that?”

 

Harry shrugs. “Just be careful, I guess. And if something happens during sex, where I like dissociate or something, it isn’t your fault at all, because I’m consenting to this.”

 

“Alright. Next, you said maybe to orgasming before or after you think you ‘should’ orgasm. I said yes to this because my policy is to come whenever you want. So explain your answer.”

 

“Um, okay, so I said maybe because I like the idea of orgasm denial, and like, not being allowed to come until you say I can? And also, the alternative, which is like, you give me three minutes to get off, or something, and if I don’t do it I get punished.”

 

“Interesting. We can do that, I guess.” Louis looks down at the list again, and sees Harry’s cute notes about aftercare, and the tiny smiley face he added at the end. “So I take it you’re a fan of aftercare?”

 

“Very much so.”

 

“Good, I’m glad. I’m willing to do whatever you need me to, so just say the word, okay?”

 

Harry nods, sitting up a little more. “That’s nice of you.”

 

“Next, you said yes to being tickled..? See, I have absolutely no idea how anyone can find enjoyment from that, but you do you I guess. You also said yes to being on the receiving end of anal intercourse,” Louis laughs a little at the phrasing, “which is very lucky because I just so happen to want to be on the giving end, so that works well.”

 

“It does,” Harry agrees quietly. When Louis looks up from Harry’s phone he sees Harry’s cheeks are rosy pink because he’s blushing, god damn it. For Harry, who is tall and strong and  oftentimes very masculine, the blatant cuteness makes Louis’ heart ache.

 

He has to tear his eyes away to look down at the list again. “Ummm, after that, you said yes to using food items as a part of sex. I said no.”

 

“Whipped cream, chocolate, wine… There are a lot of things I would like.”

 

“Hmm, okay, I can see that. You also said yes to cross-dressing.”

 

“I’m into lingerie.”

 

“So am I.”

 

“Good, then.”

 

“Blindfolds are next, I think I said maybe and you said yes. You also said yes to having your movement restricted via boindage. We can do that, if you want, but obviously we have to do research and discuss safe words and all that.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

“You also said yes to being slapped or spanked, I’m assuming this is where the daddy kink comes in?”

 

“Kind of, yeah. You can be as rough as you want.”

 

“Do you want, like, loving spanks, or do you want me to pretend to be mad at you?”

 

“I dunno, either is fine. I don’t want you to pretend, really.”

 

“Alright. For pinching and clamps you said yes as well. Nipple clamps?”

 

Harry nods, gaze very intent on the boring white sheets.

 

“You said yes to giving and receiving marks…”

 

“I might scratch your back with my nails sometimes if that’s okay.”

 

“Yeah, I can work with that. Are you okay with anything? Scratches, welts, hickeys, bruises?”

 

“Yeah, anything is fine, except sometimes burning triggers me, but also sometimes I like it. I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

“Hmm. Let’s hold off on the burning, then. That’s not really my thing, either.”

 

“Candle wax is okay, though. Like, I like it and want to try it.”

 

“Alrighty, I’ll add that to the list.” Louis scrolls down and sees where Harry responded _YES!!!_ To roleplay. “What kinds of roleplay are you into?”

 

“Daddy and little is the main one.”

 

“Is there something special you want me to call you?”

 

Harry blushes again, unable to hide it. His voice is bashful when he admits, “I like when you call me baby, and love. And I would like it if you called me ‘little one’ sometimes, too.”

 

“‘Kay, I can do that. Any other roleplaying?”

 

“Does dom/sub count?”

 

“We could do master/slave, I guess?”

 

Harry shakes his head. “I prefer daddy/little.”

 

“How little or like, young, are we talking?”

 

“I dunno. It’s just like, relative, I guess. Like that I’m younger than you and I act younger than you.”

 

“Alright, and we’re not doing pacifiers or diapers or any of that?”

 

“No, definitely not.”

 

“Thank god. Umm, I’m trying to think of what other roleplay there is. Doctor and patient? Pornstars? Animals? Teacher and student?”

 

Harry shakes his head no to all of those so Louis tries to think of some more.

 

“Oh, have you ever considered inanimate object roleplay? Like where you would be a chair or a table or something. That might be fun.”

 

“Yeah, fun for you,” Harry scowls.

 

“We should try it,” Louis says, thinking of relaxing in a chair and propping his feet up on Harry’s naked back. The view would definitely be nice.

 

“Maybe,” Harry allows.

 

Louis can’t come up with anymore roleplay scenarios so he continues down the list. “Oh, right, okay. So you said yes to sexting and sending pictures, and I said no. It’s not that I don’t trust you, so I’m hoping you understand that I’m only saying no because of what happened to me in the past.”

 

“I respect that,” Harry says seriously. “It’s fine. Can I still send pictures to you, though?”

 

“I mean, if you really want to.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Then, sure. Go for it. So, the second-to-last statement is watching porn together. I said maybe and you said yes. I mean, I guess I could see it. It’s kind of weird, though.”

 

“It’s not weird, it’s hot,” Harry argues.

 

“Okay, sure, we can do that if you want. Umm, the last question was about non-physical things you find triggering, and you answered age play and daddy kink even though you also enjoy those things.”

 

“Yeah… So, I mean I think we can both agree my, like, tastes in sex are kind of dependent on what happened to me in the past, so there’s a fine line between me enjoying it and being triggered by it.”

 

“Alright. Any ideas how we do it safely, then?”

 

“I think just doing it with someone I trust will make it better.”

 

“Okay, great. Can I take a nap now?”

 

Louis started out filling the questionnaire with the intention of satisfying Harry enough to get him to leave him alone, and finished it having sort accepted a sexual agreement with Harry, which was not the plan at all. He realizes now that it’s not _really_ that bad of an idea, until he catches feelings at least, feelings that Harry will probably never truly reciprocate.

 

He can still back out, of course, but he finds that he doesn’t want to. Categorizing his sexual preferences was eye-opening and it turns out it actually made him a bit more willing to try this agreement with Harry. The rational part of his mind is telling him to stop because it isn’t the smartest idea but for once Louis doesn’t listen because he doesn’t care.

 

“You’re really going to take a nap right now?”

 

“Why not?”

 

Harry frowns at him. “Will you at least fuck me first?”

 

“Now that’ll seem like vanilla sex compared to what we just talked about.”

 

“It _is_ vanilla sex,” Harry argues. “Hey, by the way, are you agreeing to the plan I talked about earlier?”

 

“The orgasm every day plan?”

 

Harry smirks at him. “Yeah, that one.”

 

“Yeah, I guess I am. But what do we do if we don’t see each other for a day?”

 

“Phone sex.”

 

“Isn’t that a little intense, though? Like, sex every day?”

 

Harry shrugs.

 

“Alright, whatever, I’ll do it. But I’m setting some rules, too, and one of them is that either of us is allowed to back out at any moment for whatever reason, no questions asked.”

 

“No questions asked?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Okay, fine. Now can we seal the deal?”

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “God, you’ve really got a one-track mind, don’t you?”

 

“I mean, yeah.”

 

“Eh, whatever. How do you want to do this? We have about six hours until we have to leave for the wake, by the way.”

 

“Okay. Let’s just make out for a while first and go from there.”

 

“I’m down for that,” Louis sighs, shifting over on the bed and pushing Harry down by his shoulders. He hovers on top of him, staring down at Harry for a long while, just out of reach.

 

They’ve never kissed before. Louis would be a liar to say he’s never thought about it before, because come on, really? Harry’s lips are so plush and pink and beautiful, and he does obscene things with them without even thinking about it, like when he’s drinking wine or eating a banana. He’s biting his bottom lip now, actually, as he stares up at Louis with unwavering lust, and yeah, that’s a lot to handle.

 

Louis kind of can’t handle it. In terms of other things he can’t do, he also can’t believe they just had an hour-long conversation about sex fantasies. Harry isn’t the most open person so the last thing Louis expected was for them to be able to speak so easily and openly about their desires, which are so basely personal and intimate it still makes Louis blush a bit.

 

It was just last week, during finals, when they still felt practically like strangers. Obviously they aren’t strangers, and haven’t been for a while, but considering how close they became in the past few days alone, they’ve really made a lot of progress.

 

Harry reaches up and cups Louis’ face very gently in his hand, staring up into his eyes. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he teases, brushing Louis’ bangs off his face.

 

“Be patient,” Louis chastises, now silently vowing to take his sweet time.

 

He dips down, narrowly avoiding Harry’s lips and kissing at the corner of his mouth, pulling away and laughing when Harry gasps, affronted. He ignores Harry’s protests and kisses his cheek instead, moving down to his jawline and then over, across the bow of his jaw, up to his ear. He nibbles on the edge, enjoying the sharp, shaky intake of breath Harry elicits at the feeling of teeth, but he doesn’t let even that stop him.

 

Breathing in the scent of his skin mixed with the strawberry shampoo he used recently, Louis buries his nose in his hair and then kisses all over his neck, a bit obnoxiously, just to make Harry laugh.

 

“You like that?”

 

“You’re stupid,” Harry retorts, but he says it with a sigh and sinks further into the mattress, body relaxing, obviously enjoying it.

 

“You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” Louis says, kissing in one spot now, right below the corner of his jaw.

 

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, tentatively setting his hands on Louis’ waist. His touch is light, barely there, barely felt.

 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize. I just don’t want you to have to feel weird about that stuff. If you want to do something, just do it.”

 

“Alright.”

 

As Louis goes back to sucking on Harry’s neck, Harry’s hands tighten a little on his waist, squeezing gently. They travel lower, to his hips, as if he’s exploring and surveilling, taking note of the spaces of Louis’ body, where they exist and how they exist,  and memorizing how they feel. It’s not until Louis pulls away from his neck ever so slightly to blow cool air on the spot which he has been working on with his tongue, causing goosebumps to rise on Harry’s skin, that Harry slides his hands even lower and cups Louis’ ass.

 

That’s when it gets good. Louis moans a little and mauls Harry’s neck a bit more, sucking at a few more spots until they’re bruised lightly. Harry is still groping at his ass and it feels good because his hands are big and gentle but insistent, so Louis decides to reward him by actually kissing him this time.

 

It’s life-changing in a stupid way. Louis kisses hard, deciding not to fuck around anymore and to just go for it, so he sucks on Harry’s bottom lip until Harry sighs into it and opens his mouth, letting Louis lick into him insistently, giving and taking. He’s getting tired from holding himself up so he plants his hips down on Harry’s and slips onto his forearms, effectively lying on top of him.

 

“God, you feel so good. You’re so lovely.”

 

“You too,” Harry gasps, bucking his hips up a little and _oh. That feels nice._ Louis whines, and Harry does it again, pressing their hips together with more force this time. They find a rhythm, grinding against each other, no care for the clothes separating their skin, as they make out enthusiastically, kissing hard.

 

Maybe the initial plan was to knock out one of Harry’s three days this week of penetrative sex, but they don’t get that far today. In fact, both of them come before they even get out of their clothes.

 

That’s right. Their makeout session turns so heated, they rut against each other until Harry is gasping for breath and crying that he’s going to come. Louis hardly gives him the chance to breathe, just kissing him harder, rubbing against him harder, and he comes like that, pressed into the mattress, breathing so heavily he’s shaking. Louis coaxes him through it, encouraging him to let go.

 

By the end of it, he looks exhausted, but Louis still hasn’t gotten off yet so he fights to keep his eyes open. He reaches out and palms Louis’ through his trackies, rubbing him off like that. When Louis comes, he collapses on top of Harry and stays there.

 

Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He sets his hands back on Louis’ ass and rests them there like he’s content to just hold him. Maybe he is.

 

“Nap time now?” Louis asks hopefully, burying his face in Harry’s blemished neck, which looks like a warzone from all the hickeys.

 

“Fuck yes.”

 

So they sleep the day away.

  
  


…

  
  


“Are you nervous?”

 

“A little, I guess. Are you?”

 

“Yeah, I am.” Louis sighs. “It’s okay to be scared though. We’ll be perfectly okay.”

 

Harry nods mindlessly but he doesn’t look like he believes it. Louis isn’t sure if he himself does either. “I’m so glad I have you with me, though. I have no idea what I would’ve done if I was alone.”

 

“No one should have to go through this alone, H. But I’m glad I can be here for you.”

 

They’re in the car, on their way to the funeral home. Louis is driving. Harry is sitting in the passenger’s seat, jittering, and bouncing his knee up and down so much is feels as though it makes the car shake. They tried listening to music but it didn’t work; they’re both too keyed up to focus on anything else. In less than an hour, Harry will see his abusive adoptive parents for the first time in more than three years. He’ll also be faced with the death of his grandma, whom he was really close with.

 

Louis is definitely nervous. He’s worried about how Harry is going to handle it all. He definitely wishes they would’ve ended up having actual sex because maybe they’d both be more tired and relaxed right now, calmer in a way.

 

Unfortunately, it’s too late for that, unless they fancy themselves some funeral sex, which is just too morbid to think about. Louis vows to steal Harry away for a moment and hide out with him in the bathroom, maybe even drag him into one of the stalls and kiss him until he calms down.

 

They arrive at the funeral home all too soon. The parking lot is only half full, but Louis parks in the back so they have to walk farther to get inside. It’ll waste time. At least, that’s what he’s hoping.

 

“Do I look okay?” Harry asks once they’re both standing outside of the car, procrastinating actually walking closer to the building they’re supposed to be in right now.

 

“You look great,” Louis tells him honestly. Then, in a posh accent, “Very dashing.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes but still messes with his hair and fiddles with his rings. Definitely nervous habits. He’s wearing all black: jeans, blouse, boots, the whole look. It’s beautiful on him, of course, simple but devastatingly handsome, as always. In a different setting he would look like a rockstar.

 

They had a bit of an issue when getting ready earlier in the day, first when they realized Louis hadn’t packed any nice clothes because he hadn’t expected to be attending a funeral, and second when they noticed the hickeys all over Harry’s neck.

 

The first problem required a stressful rummage through both of their suitcases until they pulled together an acceptable outfit. Now Louis is wearing Harry’s extra pair of jeans, which are too tight in his ass and thighs but otherwise too long, awkwardly bunched up at his knees and ankles. It’s very obvious they’re not his pants, and again in another setting it would be a cute look, but right now it looks like he just had sex and Louis threw on the first pair of trousers he could find, which turned out to not belong to him. That’s not entirely false, but again, not a good look for a funeral.

 

Luckily, he’s wearing his own black jumper, and though he already wore it on this trip he supposes it’s fine. The sleeves cover his hands and keep him warm which is exactly what he needs in the horrid winter weather.

 

The other problem, this one a bit more raunchy, was fixed with a trip to the drugstore, where they spent at least fifteen minutes in the makeup aisle.

 

“Am I Natural Ivory or Classic Ivory?” Harry had wailed, holding up two different concealer sticks which looked nearly identical. Louis tried his best to help.

 

“I think you’re actually Porcelain, babe. Or maybe Perfect Beige? I can’t tell.”

 

It took ten minutes to narrow it down between Natural Ivory and a newly discovered shade called Perfect Porcelain. They stared at the two shades for so long, they started to look exactly the same. Eventually the lady at the end of the aisle near the mascara, who had been watching their breakdown for the past few minutes came over to give them a second opinion.

 

She was very sweet, tilting Harry’s head up by the chin to get a better look at his neck, before announcing, “Honey, you’re definitely Perfect Porcelain.”

 

Harry sighed, relieved, giving her a small hug of gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

 

“No problem. Good luck. And by the way, I would suggest buying powder as well to put over the hickeys once you cover them up.” And with one last _have fun, boys!_ she was gone.

 

Now the hickeys are covered up for the most part. Harry keeps touching his neck though, so the concealer is bound to rub off sometime. Every time he does it, Louis swats his hands away.

 

“Alright, shall we head in?”

 

“I really don’t want to,” Harry sighs. He starts walking anyways. Louis matches his pace and links their arms together. He would hold Harry’s hand but he’s afraid one of Harry’s homophobic relatives will see and damn them to hell.

 

There’s a young boy at the door, dressed to the nines, who holds it open for them. A man inside offers to take their coats. Louis isn’t wearing one, but Harry shrugs off his and hands it over. They’re directed to the room on the right, and they head inside, moving slowly.

 

It’s uncomfortably quiet. Louis’ eyes land on the harpist in the corner, behind a screen. At least the music is nice, but it’s sad, of course, because sad music is the only respectable funeral music. Family members are huddled in the corner near the casket, whispering quietly. It sounds stilted. Someone chuckles at a joke that was made, and the room dissolves into awkwardness. There’s a certain eeriness to hearing laughter at a funeral.

 

Louis’ arm is still around Harry’s, he realizes, so he drops it quickly and puts a bit of space between them. The few inches feels like miles of emptiness and he wants to close the gap again, but he can’t. Not when the others are looking at them like they’re an alien species that doesn’t belong here.

 

Harry ignores the dirty looks and the confused ones too. He crosses the room with waning confidence and walks up to one of the pictures boards to inspect it and perhaps reminise. Louis follows behind him like a puppy.

 

They are a ton of pictures, and Louis can’t make much sense of most of them because he doesn’t know who anyone is. Harry silently points out the ones of himself and Louis smiles in awe at the cute child Harry was. He’s still cute now, of course, just a different kind of cute. An older kind, more tired.

 

Harry asks Louis to accompany him as he approaches the casket. Louis would never say no. They walk up slowly and it breaks Louis’ heart to hear the little intake of breath Harry makes when his eyes land on the body of his deceased grandmother, so still and probably looking eerily unlike herself due to the heavy makeup and stiffness of her positioning.

 

Louis doesn’t like the sight of dead people, even if they’re strangers and they died peacefully. He doesn’t look away, but rather looks on curiously, and if to discover something. He finds nothing but stillness.

 

Harry kneels on the bench amd Louis kneels beside him. He bows his head, clasps his hands, and says a private prayer. Then, they recite the Our Father and Hail Mary in a whisper.

 

_Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…_

 

After that, they have no more excuses for not speaking with the rest of the family. Harry stands up from where he was kneeling and Louis does too. They hold hands for a second before letting go. Harry sees his parents across the room but doesn't go over to them. He talks to his grandpa instead. Louis stands patiently and quietly until he’s introduced, and then he pretty much keeps his mouth shut all the same, only speaking when he’s addressed directly.

 

Harry doesn’t approach his parents, so they approach him. They corner him, actually, quite literally. Louis can tell just from the way they look that they’re cruel. Imposing and cold, they swarm at Harry like vultures.

 

And Harry isn’t taking it well. He shrinks back in fear, looking like he’s desperate to fall back into the shadows and never be seen again. Louis holds onto the back of his blouse, practically clinging, like he’s afraid Harry is going to melt to the floor.

 

“And who is this?”

 

The way his mother asks isn’t conversational or kind. It’s judgemental and argumentative. Controlling, like, _I didn’t give you permission to invite someone. How dare you bring someone else with you._

 

Harry answers with surprising strength. “Louis Tomlinson,” he says, sounding determined. Louis is proud of him for being so brave.

 

She eyes Louis up and down. Louis has dealt with worse but it’s still really shitty. He resists the urge to flip her off. He shakes her hand and then Harry’s father’s too. He does the dick move of clasping his free hand on top of Louis’ in a blatant display of power. The conversation fizzles from there.

 

“Where are you staying tonight?” She’s addressing Harry, staring at him coldly. She won’t even look at Louis. Harry’s father won’t look at any of them.

 

“A hotel.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The one off route sixty-four.”

 

“You should stay at home tonight.”

 

“We already paid for the room.”

 

“I don’t care. You’re in town, for once. You’re staying at home.”

 

Harry gives in too easily. Louis wishes he would’ve put up more of a fight, or even straight up said no, but he gets it. It’s hard to do that without causing a scene and a funeral is not the place to do that.

 

Harry’s parents get distracted by the arrival of new guests and that’s when Harry drags Louis to a corner. Louis notices the tears in his eyes and he just wants to scoop him up in his arms and protect him from the world.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I want to kill myself,” he whispers. Chilling words to hear in a funeral home.

 

Louis doesn’t know what to say or do. He reaches up and strokes the curls away from Harry’s eyes, and then wipes away a tear that slips down his cheek.

 

“Let’s go make out in the bathroom,” he says eventually, because that’s his backup plan, his last resort.

 

Harry laughs a little but follows Louis anyways, out to the lobby and down a hallway until they get to the men’s room.

 

Funeral home bathrooms are always very nice because people burst into tears a lot when their relatives or friends have died and the best place to hide while sobbing is in the bathroom, apparently. The carpet is soft and regal and everything smells like roses and perfume.

 

“Hey Hazza?”

 

“Hmm?” Harry hums, already in the process of setting his hands on Louis’ waist and lifting him up to sit him on the countertop, next to the sink.

 

Louis gets distracted for a moment staring at his muscles, which just lifted Louis’ entire body easily in one swift motion. The kid is strong, there’s no denying that. He shakes his head, determined to say what he set out to say. “You know, we could still stay in the hotel tonight if you want. They really can’t stop you from making your own decisions.”

 

Harry drops his hands to Louis’ thighs and rubs up and down, stepping in between his legs and spreading them wider. He pulls Louis closer and then kisses him chastely on the lips. Louis likes this, that they can kiss each other casually without it being a big deal. It’s probably not a good idea for his heart, which jackrabbits in his chest the entire time, but it’s still nice.

 

“I know. It’s alright. I really fucking don’t wanna go back, but they’ll be so pissed if I don’t.”

 

“Okay. Just know you have other options, you know?”

 

“Right. Thank you for being so kind to me.”

 

“Of course. You deserve only kindness.”

 

“So do you.” Harry leans in and kisses him hard, and that ends the conversation.

 

Louis holds Harry close, hands clasped heavy on the bag of his neck and keeping their faces pressed together like he’s afraid to let go. Actually, he _is_ afraid to let go. He’s afraid because Harry might say something like _I want to kill myself_ and Louis just can’t have that, you know? He can’t have that. So he keeps their presses together and kisses with vigor even when he hears the door opening.

 

It’s a mistake. Of course it’s Harry’s dad walking in and seeing them just like this. In retrospect Louis should’ve dragged Harry outside, maybe even back to the hotel. Maybe even all the way back to their apartment in New York. Anywhere but here.

 

“Harry!” He barks, voice loud enough that it might be heard on the other side of the door, in the horrifically quiet lobby of the funeral home. “You disgusting-” and Louis can hear it, can feel it, that awful word coming even before it’s out of his mouth. He does say it, he does.

 

_You disgusting faggot._

 

Louis feels Harry tense up like a statue made of marble but he doesn’t turn around, probably too paralyzed by the tone of his voice, his awful father who has no doubt said this to him and worse so many times throughout his childhood. Louis keeps one hand clamped on the back of Harry’s neck like a vice, half to keep him from collapsing to the floor and half to stop him from turning around. He lifts his other hand and flips him off, a big _fuck you,_ hoping this and the sight of their colossal gayness will get him to go away.

 

He doesn’t leave, though. The door stays shut and Harry’s father stays standing there with this angry violent look on his face and Louis keeps his lips smashed against Harry’s and wonders if Harry can see what’s happening from the reflection in the mirror. He holds Harry’s neck tighter at the thought, as if he could protect Harry from such a thing. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

 

“Leave us the _fuck_ alone,” Louis says when he finally feels calm enough to detach his lips from Harry and speak. His voice shakes but it sounds cold and heavy. He isn’t messing around. He is _so_ pissed off.

 

The man who may actually be the devil himself hardly even looks at Louis. He dismisses him completely, like he isn’t even human. He stalks forward and latches his claw-like hand on Harry’s arm, tugging hard.

 

“If you know what’s good for you, you’d step away from him, son.” He’s speaking to Harry, the tone of his voice both pejorative and threatening.

 

“Fuck off,” Louis hisses, grabbing him by the wrist and braking his grip on Harry. This, too, is a mistake. It crosses a barrier and brings them closer to an actual physical altercation. Harry is still stock still and staring at Louis with big eyes. Either dissociating or on his way there. Louis is on his own and he’s not going down without a fight. “You and I both know you’re not going to start something right here,” Louis warns, clutching Harry tight, eyes wild. “So leave us the fuck alone.”

 

He goes to grab Harry again, completely ignoring Louis.

 

Louis isn’t having any of it. “If you touch him one more time, I’m gonna start screaming and I’m not gonna stop until someone comes in here and sees the monster that you are. Stay the _fuck_ away from him.”

 

There’s a heavy pause.

 

He touches him again and Louis starts screaming.

 

It lasts for about three seconds until he gets decked in the face and spits out blood all over the mirror. When he looks up again, Harry is crumpled to the floor and his father is gone.

 

_What the hell._

 

“Harry are you okay?”

 

He has his arms around his knees and he’s sobbing while rocking back and forth. Definitely not okay. Louis wipes his blood off on the back of his hand and crouches down so he can look Harry in the watery, teary eyes.

 

“Let’s get out of here, baby. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

 

“We can’t,” Harry cries. He’s surprisingly lucid considering how still he was just a moment ago, unmoving like he was made of stone or ice or something even colder. “We have to go to my parents’ house.”

 

“Harry, no, we definitely do not have to do that. He just punched me in the face. They abused you for years. We can go back to the hotel.”

 

“No, Louis, I have to do this. It’s my fault and if I don’t- If I don’t… I don’t even know, I just can’t not do this.”

 

Louis sits back on his haunches and stares at him for a moment. He looks like a child like this, curled up on the floor of a funeral home bathroom, crying hysterically. Louis sighs. “Alright, fine. But if he touches you again, I’m calling the fucking police.”

  
  


…

  
  


They actually do end up stopping at the hotel, if only to grab their things. Louis jams his belongings angrily in his bag as Harry cries and cries and cries, packing his suitcase much neater than Louis.

 

“If he touches you again we’re coming right back here,” Louis warns again grumpily, not messing around.

 

Harry nods and sniffles, wiping at his nose with his hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Louis sighs, wanting to reach out and comfort Harry with physical touch but he knows it’s not a good idea. He knows Harry won’t respond well to that right now when he’s wound so tightly like this, looking like he’s a few seconds from running away.

 

Louis’ face has stopped bleeding by now but he’s sporting an ugly bruise on his jaw. It blossoms like a gross, dark flower, all black and blue and purple. A painful reminder of just who they’re going to be sharing a house with tonight.

 

“Your dad is an asshole.”

 

“I know.”

 

They drive the rest of the way in silence.

 

Harry’s parents’ house, as it turns out, is very nice. Louis isn’t surprised. It’s large, in a gated community at the end of a cul de sac. There are tall, healthy pine trees lining the posterior of the property and beyond that there’s nothing but empty land.

 

They ring the doorbell. Harry doesn’t live here anymore and neither of them are comfortable just walking through the door. His mom answers it and lets them inside, but she seems reluctant and very unwelcoming.

 

Louis doesn’t care. He’s too pissed off to feel uncomfortable and unwanted. She shows them the rooms in which they’ll be sleeping and Louis sets his bag down in the room he’s assigned while Harry does the same. They meet each other in the hallway, unsure of what to do.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I hate it here,” Harry whispers. He steps forward and unexpectedly wraps Louis in a hug, squeezing him tight. He rests his chin on the top of Louis’ head and sighs again, this time the sound much more relaxed, as if he feels comfortable like this. It makes something warm blossom in Louis’ chest, to think that maybe Harry finds comfort in him enough to want to be near him when everything else is going to shit.

 

He isn’t ignorant enough to know how important this is, that Harry is hugging him first and asking for what he wants and not being afraid to do that with Louis. Part of childhood trauma is having parents who make you fearful of even asking for a necessity, so Louis knows how big it is for Harry to be asking for physical affection and comfort like this. It means he trusts Louis’ not to use it against him to hurt him and that means the world to Louis.

 

So he sets his arms around Harry’s waist and rubs his lower back. Harry holds him tighter and rocks them back and forth, shifting their weight from side to side. They pull away after a long while and Harry is slightly smiling at him, his expression soft.

 

It feels momentous. The fact that Harry can feel safe enough to smile in a place like this, a home that must be riddled with traumatic memories, makes Louis want to kiss him hard from the freeing amount of pride he feels at the fact that yeah, maybe Harry is deeply traumatized, but he’s getting better in a way, and he’s growing from it. Any victory, no matter how small, is still a victory.

 

They still have a lot of uncomfortable shit to do, like go downstairs to face the monsters of Harry’s past. It sounds a lot more dramatic that way, but Louis feels like they can afford themselves some melodrama. Harry has been through a lot, if the physical and mental scars he bears are anything to go by.

 

So Louis sure as hell doesn’t want to go downstairs, and Harry sure as hell doesn’t want to either, but they both know they have to. Louis holds out his hand and motions for the stairs. Harry interlaces their fingers.

 

“Shall we?”

  
  


…

  
  


Only fifteen minutes later, quite a few facts are clear to Louis:

 

First, they don’t want Louis in their house. At all. They think he’s scum, not only because he’s a friend of Harry’s but because he’s gay too, and because he’s not exactly buying into their “great parents” front. They glare at him with contempt but the gazes are gilded with forced, polite smiles which are miles away from reaching their eyes.

 

Second, however way they choose to look at Louis, they look at Harry a million times worse. Louis has never seen so much hatred in a glance before, but he sees it here and now in the way they look at Harry when they think Louis isn’t paying attention. It’s horrifying, because Harry notices, and he cowers away from it like he’s afraid they’re going to start yelling or throwing heavy objects at him or whatever it is they might do. Louis can’t even begin to imagine what Harry thinks is in store for him.

 

Third, they’re manipulative liars who only care about saving face. Louis is sad to admit he doesn’t think he would pick up on any of this if he hadn’t heard Harry’s side first, and yeah, that really fucking sucks, because not many people have had the advantage of hearing Harry’s side first. Which means that his parents have somehow managed to get everyone on their side, by pretending to be supportive, loving parents who give their child everything he asks.

 

Louis can see it clearly, though: they hate him with all they have in them. Yet they still care about how they appear to others. Having a lot of money means they get to live in luxury without affording Harry that same benefit. Louis wonders if they’ve ever manipulated Harry with financials, and of course they probably have. He can only imagine what that entails. He’ll have to ask Harry later.

 

Regardless, they’re only downstairs for an hour or so. The conversation is stilted and uncomfortable. Harry hardly speaks and Louis isn’t very keen on responding either. They watch TV in front of the fireplace. Louis wants to curl up beside Harry or at least hold his hand but he knows that would get Harry into trouble and that’s the last thing he wants.

 

Around nine o’clock they head up to bed. It’s insanely early but Louis would rather be anywhere than sitting on the couch across beside Harry’s mother and diagonal from his father. Harry seems to feel the same way because when Louis stands up saying he’s tired, Harry bolts up too, like a gut reaction.

 

“Why don’t you stay a moment, Harry? We’d love to have a talk with you.”

 

Uh-oh. Louis hadn’t even thought that might happen. Now worried and wondering how he can possibly save Harry from being alone with his parents, Louis blanches. He glances over at Harry who is having much of the same reaction, face pale like all the blood has drained from it, eyes wide in fear. His hands are shaking.

 

Louis wants to wrap his arms around him and whisk him away, take him back home to New York where they can huddle together in their apartment and never go outside into the cruel, ugly world ever again. If only that were possible, Louis would love Harry like he deserves and would make sure he would be happy, always.

 

There’s a stilted silence. Louis’ mind is whirling with ways he can get Harry out of this, excuses he can make to either pull Harry upstairs or stay down here with him. None of them work, and time is ticking.

 

“Go ahead, Lou. I’ll just be a moment.”

 

Harry is staring at him with deep, worried eyes that convey meaning. Like, _there’s nothing you can do._

 

Louis nods and tries to give Harry a reassuring smile. He’s not sure if it’s conveyed through his facial expression but it’s worth a shot. At the last second, he brushes his knuckles against Harry’s lower back as a form of comfort. It’s short-lived and through a layer of t-shirt but it still makes Louis’ skin tingle.

 

Retreating back upstairs feels sickening this time because he knows he’s leaving Harry down there alone with his parents, even after he promised not to. He wants to wait on the stairs to eavesdrop and make sure he’s okay but he’s afraid of being found out and getting Harry into even more trouble. Besides, they’re speaking too quietly for him to hear anyways.

 

So he heads upstairs and lies in bed and waits for Harry.

  
  


…

  
  


A long time later he hears voices and footsteps in the hallway and stands up abruptly. He left the door open but he can’t see anything because it’s dark. Nothing sounds inherently wrong but he’s still so worried, anxiety is bubbling through his veins.

 

It’s not a fun feeling. Especially when he can hear hushed whispering. Not Harry’s voice. Harry is quiet and submissive. Louis knows him well enough to be certain he would never speak back to his parents.

 

It’s strange, because to some extent Louis understands. Harry has faced abuse since childhood and the trauma has taken its toll on him. The resulting psychological damage is severe. It explains why Harry jumps every time he hears Louis enter the room—an innate reaction from years of verbal and physical punishment, most times probably for doing nothing wrong at all.

 

The whispering stops sharply and a door closes down the hall, not Harry’s but his parents’. Louis waits with bated breath for a moment before deciding it’s safe and stepping out into the hall. He slips into Harry’s room but knocks quietly on the doorframe to announce his presence. He watches through the dark, with only the hallway light creeping into the room, as Harry jumps at the sound.

 

“Hey H, it’s me,” Louis whispers stupidly, not waiting for an invitation before he crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. “Everything alright?”

 

“They’ll kill us if they find you in here,” Harry whispers, eyes wide, hands shaking. He isn’t crying but he looks close to it, his dark eyes shiny and glistening. In the lack of light, they look black and fearful.

 

“It’s alright,” Louis soothes, smoothing a hand up Harry’s arm. “They’ve gone to bed already. They won’t find me in here.”

 

“Okay,” Harry concedes, but he doesn’t relax.

 

He doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything, either. So Louis takes it upon himself to ask, “So what did you guys talk about?”

 

“They want me to move out. They don’t want me to live with you anymore.”

 

“What?” Of all the topics of conversation he could’ve guessed, he isn’t sure why he never thought of that one. There’s a beat of silence where the words sink in, and Louis is faced with the idea of living alone again, this time without Harry.

 

It was easier before he knew what he was missing, not to live with Harry. He hadn’t minded staying inside all alone, never going out with friends, acting depressed—no, probably suffering from actual depression. Just going to his classes and doing his work and moping around, always.

 

Now, the thought of Harry leaving him has a dark, heavy weight sinking to the pit of his stomach. His heart beats a little faster and in that moment, everything in his body aches.

 

Harry can’t leave him.

 

He thinks of how they’ve become so codependent on each other these past few months. He thinks about how much they need each other. How it’s mutual, that even though it seems like Harry needs Louis more to wake him from his nightmares and hold him close to calm him down, Louis needs Harry just as much, if not more.

 

He needs Harry to be there when he gets home from a long day at classes and the lab. He needs to hear him singing in the shower or watch him make dinner for them together. He needs to sit on the couch and rest his head again his shoulder and watch Planet Earth with him until he falls asleep just like that before it’s even nine o’clock. He needs to be hugged when he’s tired or sad or cold or any in between, he needs to feel that warm steady body against his and that even steadier beat of his heart that tells them they’re both alive together, that here in this moment they are both living and breathing, occupying adjacent spaces in this godforsaken universe and somehow hanging on, despite it all.

 

Louis doesn’t remember when he started caring this much about Harry but it doesn’t really matter when it happened, all that matters is that at some point he did start caring for Harry too much and now here they are at these ugly crossroads and he feels his heart break especially when he looks up, catches Harry gaze, and sees the few tears streaming down his cheeks now.

 

Louis sighs, leaning forward enough to reach his hands out and brush them away. Gently, of course, because he’s always gentle, even with Harry’s darkness and his pain. He wipes the wetness off on his pajamas and then pulls himself to sit cross-legged on the bed, attentive to Harry and ready to listen. “Do you want to move out?”

 

He looks startled, though, like a deer caught in headlights. It takes Louis another moment to realize that no one ever really asks him about what he wants, so he doesn’t have an answer prepared or even thought of, but by the time this moment passes and Louis understands, Harry is already stumbling through an answer.

 

“I- ehm, I don’t really…”

 

Louis nods encouragingly, but even now he can feel the frown on his face. What if Harry really does want to leave? What if it doesn’t matter what Harry wants, and his parents somehow manipulate him to do what they want him to do, like always?

 

“H, remember this is what you want, not what anybody else wants. Just you.”

 

At that, Harry shakes his head vehemently. “No, I- I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to live on my own… I’ve no idea what I’d do without you.”

 

Smiling at him gently, as if to reward his openness and self-disclosure, Louis holds his palm open on Harry’s knee. An invitation. Harry takes it tentatively and entwines his fingers with Louis’, feeling a little nervous and twitchy but he relaxes slightly when Louis’ strokes his thumb up and down the side of his hand.

 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” Louis tells him, feeling honest and unbearably out in the open. It’s good for him to be near Harry because he’s always trying to set the good example by being willing to divulge personal information, which means he’s challenging himself to do that because it definitely doesn’t come naturally.

 

Harry quirks a smile but it drops almost instantly. “It doesn’t matter what I want, though. I have to move out by next month or else they’ll stop paying for school altogether.”

 

Oh. The financial manipulation Louis had suspected earlier now makes sense. Of course, paying for Harry’s college means they get quite a bit of say in where he lives, since they are the ones paying rent.

 

“Are you going to?”

 

Harry nods slowly. “I have to. I can’t pay for it myself. I still have three semesters left.”

 

Louis hums, deep in thought. “There are always other options, H.”

 

“But what, though?”

 

“We can figure something out. Like if we… If we move to a new apartment but you just tell them you’re living by yourself… They’ll only see the new address and not that we’re living together, obviously.”

 

“But wouldn’t they- Well, I don’t really know how it works but I feel like it wouldn’t be that easy. The whole reason they don’t want me living with you is because they don’t want me to be with you and if they find out I’ve gone and done that even after they threatened me and told me no…”

 

“They wouldn’t know, though.” Louis squeezes his hand reassuringly. “No matter what you decide, we’ll make it work, okay? Even if you want to move out and not live with me anymore. If you still want me, I’ll come whenever you want me there okay? Even if it means I have to practically live there but still go to mine every night.”

 

“I don’t want to sleep apart,” Harry whispers.

 

“Then we won’t. Whatever you want, we’ll make it work. If you want to stay with me and say fuck you to your parents, and they stop paying, we’ll figure it out. I actually have an interview next week for a research position and the pay is really great. We’ll figure it out, yeah? I promise we will.”

 

Harry starts crying again, but he looks at Louis like he’s grateful. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

“You don’t have to worry about it, love.”

 

He laughs a little even though he’s crying and wiping away the tears. Louis can tell he’s relieved and maybe even a little bit happy, and that’s a big feat when they’re at a place which holds as many horrendous memories as this house does.

 

“I’m sorry for crying.”

 

“Don’t apologize, H, you’re fine. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this is for you.”

 

Sniffling, he laughs again and rubs at his face. “You make it so much easier.”

 

“I’m glad. We’ll talk more about it later, but just know that whatever happens, we’ll make it work. So everything’s good now, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Thank you.”

 

“Alright, good. You all ready for bed, kiddo?”

 

He gets a nod and a weak smile in response.

 

“Perfect. I’ll see you in the morning, then.” He stands up, squeezing Harry’s hand one last time before letting it go. Then he cups Harry’s face with his palms, the skin of his cheeks feeling warm and smooth, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. When he pulls away, Harry’s eyes are closed like he’s revelling in the feeling. Louis’ lips are likewise tingling from the chaste contact and that’s one of the many signs that lead him to believe he has feelings for Harry. Lately he’s been trying to deny them but he feels too tired to do that right now.

 

When he’s almost to the door he hears that lovely, deep voice behind him whisper, “Good night, Lou.”

 

So Louis braces his hand on the doorframe and gives him one last warm smile. “Night, kiddo.”

  
  


…

  
  


He wakes up at half-past two with a sinking feeling in his stomach and the monition that something is _wrong._

 

It’s difficult to explain how the deep, heavy feeling in his stomach somehow drives him to get out of bed, but it does, and he’s glad for it because something _is_ wrong.

 

The bathroom door is cracked open and the light is on. Louis hears sniffling and gagging and it sounds like someone he knows very well. He inches forward through the dark hallway before approaching the bathroom door and peering inside as best as he can. He can’t see much, but the telltale posture and figure of Harry. Of course.

 

He makes his presence known by whispering Harry’s name until he turns around and sees him. Louis steps in the room but leaves the door open behind him because the bathroom is small and he’s afraid of making Harry feel claustrophobic.

 

Harry gets claustrophobic sometimes but to Louis at least it’s unpredictable. Sometimes, on rare occasions, after his nightmares, Louis will try to hold him to calm him down like he always does, but Harry will shove him away and pant heavily, saying he feels trapped. Louis figured out the darkness worsens the feeling of entrapment as well, so now he almost always flicks the lights on, unless he’s told not to. Always listening to Harry for cues, being attentive and trying to figure out exactly what he needs and how to give it to him.

 

“Oh Harry…” Louis sighs when he realizes what’s happening. He’s sick and nauseous, probably from nerves and stress. There has been an insane amount of pressure on him today and it’s probably all hitting him right now, after trying desperately to keep it bottled up so he wouldn’t break in front of so many people.

 

Louis has hardly had time to think about it, but in small quiet moments he has let his mind wander to the past few days, attempting to figure out what the hell changed to make Harry seem so different, opening up more and somehow being more reckless too, in the way that he cornered Louis into a strange sex agreement. It isn’t normal, it isn’t safe, it isn’t comfortable. Obviously Louis is going to do everything in his power to protect Harry always, but that doesn’t mean what they’re doing is a good idea.

 

Hypersexuality is a result of trauma, and that has always been a part of who Harry is. He seeks out dangerous situations because he believes he deserves to be at risk of getting hurt at the very least. He was in an abusive relationship for years apparently, going back to the same monster who harmed him time and time again just so he could satisfy that strange drive for sex which perhaps confuses Louis the most.

 

It seems he vacillates between periods of depression and periods of hypersexuality. They’re interconnected, interwoven like thread and it’s horrible because during either, there is always a risk.

 

“I feel like shit,” Harry whispers, clinging a little harder to the toilet before leaning over and dry heaving into it. He looks horrid and sickly, completely done, and at his worst. The trauma, the fear, the danger, the risk… all of it is taking its toll on him, ruining him. Louis isn’t naive enough to believe he can save him, or anyone for that matter. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

 

“Is it alright if I stay with you?”

 

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he does lean back and collapse against the side of the counter, his breathing labored from all the heaving.

 

Louis takes in his sickly pale skin and the way it’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he sighs. You poor thing.” He’s grown attached to his roommate after all these difficult nights of watching him suffer and trying to take care of him. He cares about Harry a lot, he realizes. He doesn’t want him to be in pain.

 

So he takes care of him, wetting a washcloth and using it to wipe up his face and his mouth. He also leaves for a moment to find a glass of water and returns with it for Harry to rinse his mouth, which he does. Then he feels sick again and heaves over the toilet, and they start the process all over again. It’s frustrating, but there’s nothing else to do. Louis rubs his back and keeps him company through it all, gathering his curls in one hand and keeping them away from his face as he pukes up the contents of his stomach.

 

He knows how much Harry likes it when people plays with his hair. Louis has experienced his love for it on many occasions back in their apartment, during quiet nights in when Harry would lie his head on Louis’ lap and Louis would slide his fingers in his hair. No matter what he did, entangling his fingers in his curls, trying to braid them, scratching lightly at his scalp with his nails—Harry always responded positively.

 

So Louis takes that as permission to do it now, sitting beside him and stroking his hair away from his face, holding it in place so it’s one less thing to worry about. At first Harry seems shy and disgruntled by Louis being in the same room as he pukes up his guts in the toilet, and Louis gets it because it definitely is a vulnerable position to be in and it’s part of human nature to hide when you’re sick and defenseless. But eventually he relaxes and decides not to give a fuck, too preoccupied by throwing up. Louis rubs his back through it all, wishing he could actually help somehow.

 

It lasts nearly an hour and by then Louis’ knees ache from kneeling on the hard tile floor. He can only imagine how Harry feels, since it’s four in the morning and Louis is close to complaining even though he isn’t even the one who’s sick.

 

Harry falls asleep against the wall and Louis struggles to pull him up into a standing position to heave his sleeping body back to bed. He wakes up before they’re even out of the bathroom and lulls his head to Louis shoulder, wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist and leaning on him completely for support.

 

It isn’t easy, but Louis gets him back in bed. He pulls him close and hugs him until he falls asleep again, because Louis can’t deal with the way Harry is shivering with fear and sickness, so afraid he made himself nauseous.

 

When he’s certain Harry isn’t awake anymore, he detaches himself and slips back into the guest room. He would love to sleep close to Harry tonight but he actually is kind of worried about what his parents would do if they found out. He doesn’t want to get Harry into any more trouble than he already is.

 

It’s also a bummer to know that if Louis hadn’t joined Harry on this trip and showed up uninvited to a funeral, his parents probably never would’ve known Harry is living with Louis, and thus never would’ve threatened to stop funding his schooling.

 

Louis closes his eyes and squeezes a spare pillow close to his chest at the thought of Harry moving out. He knows he told Harry earlier that they would make it work no matter what, but that’s assuming that Harry still wants to see Louis after he moves out. And that… that’s hard to swallow.

 

Because really, if they don’t live together, Harry isn’t forced to spend time with Louis. Even now, it’s always Louis initiating contact and trying to get Harry to open up. They’ve come so far, leaps and bounds ahead of where they were at the beginning but Louis is still worried Harry somehow doesn’t want to be around him.

 

Realistically, that’s wrong, of course. He knows Harry wants to be with him because he’s said it multiple times, but more than that he’s showed it through his actions.

 

Like when he would bring Louis lunch last semester because he knew Louis always forgot to eat on certain days, or didn’t have time to make anything. Or when he hugs Louis close because he just knows he’s cold because he’s a freeze baby. Or on the rare occasions when he asks to be held because he doesn’t want to feel alone.

 

Harry isn’t very good at asking for what he wants, but he’s getting better. This aversion to vocalizing his desires makes sense because he grew up in an environment where every behavior resulted in punishment, no matter what. His parents’ abuse has made him timid and shy, too afraid to be honest with his wants.

 

He’s growing, though, and Louis can see it already. Like how he nearly demanded they form a sexual relationship between each other. That situation still makes Louis sick, and he doesn’t know what to think of it, but if there’s one good thing to come from it, it’s that Harry is finally asking for what he wants. What he wants might not be best for him but at least he’s verbalizing it.

 

Two hours later and Louis still can’t get to sleep. He feels like shit, he’s nervous for the funeral ceremony, and he doesn’t want to have to see Harry’s parents again. He sits up in bed and glares out the window where the sky is beginning to light up. The sun hasn’t peeked over the horizon yet but it’s approaching it and the sky is turning from black to gray to blue. He wants to talk to someone, but Harry is asleep and he’ll be damned if he wakes him.

 

He only has one option, really, because there’s only one person on earth who would ever be up this early by choice and actually not mind talking to Louis.

 

“Tommo?” There’s laughter and shuffling on the other end of the line. “You’re up early.”

 

Louis presses the phone tighter to his ear and flops back on the bed. He should probably go outside, so as not to wake the rest of the house, but it’s cold and snowy and he doesn’t wanna put socks on. “Shut up, Leemo. I need to talk to you.”

 

“Alright, alright. What’s up? How’s the road trip? Clifford is great, by the way.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Good, I’m glad.” He had Liam watch Clifford since he couldn’t logistically bring a dog with him on a roadtrip like this.

 

“So, how’s everything going?” Liam prompts gently like he knows Louis needs it. He probably _does_ know. They’ve been friends for a while, to the point where they can read each other even over the phone, just through words and tone of voice.

 

“It’s, um, interesting to say the least. I don’t even know where to start?”

 

“Are you in a hotel right now.”

 

“No. Harry’s parents’ house.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

Liam doesn’t know they’re here for a funeral. Louis tells him this.

 

“Oh. Huh. So is it weird, then, with his family?”

 

Louis sighs, pressing the phone closer and staring up at the ceiling. “His dad punched me in the face yesterday. Busted my lip and everything. Thank god I was wearing black, otherwise the blood would’ve ruined my jumper.”

 

There’s a short burst of stunned silence on Liam’s end. He eventually asks, “What the hell? _Why_ did he punch you?”

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

“I’m assuming you’re calling to tell me this story.”

 

“Right. Well, I have to give you the background. So essentially a few nights ago Harry was drunk and horny and he wanted to fuck this middle-aged man at the hotel bar, and I didn’t want him to because he always chooses shady people and ends up getting hurt.”

 

Liam makes a sad noise of agreement. “Like Roman.”

 

“Exactly. So Harry, being the genius that he is, suggested I fuck him instead.”

 

He’s quiet for a long moment, and Louis would think the call was cut short aside from the fact that he knows Liam too well. And lo and behold, he responds nearly a minute later. “So did you?”

 

Louis clenches his fingers together nervously, and then releases the tension slowly before smoothing his hands out on the blue duvet and picking at a loose thread on the otherwise near perfect comforter in the coldly near perfect room in the horrifyingly near perfect house.

 

Perfection. That’s what Harry’s parents expected of him all through his childhood, setting expectations so high he never had a chance to reach them. Setting him up for failure. And when he failed, they punished him.

 

He pulls the thread but doesn’t rip it away. He keeps pulling and thinks that if he doesn’t stop, the whole entire duvet will unravel.

 

“Louis…” Liam’s tone isn’t judgemental or disappointed. Just. Worried.

 

Louis sighs. He’s been sighing a lot lately. It’s getting annoying. “I did.”

 

Liam doesn’t say anything.

 

“Is that bad?”

 

“No… Not necessarily. I don’t know about you two. I mean, you know how Harry is. But I think… I think you guys are good for each other.”

 

“We’re not together, though. I’m just helping him out.” He laughs a little, but it doesn’t feel funny. “Scratching an itch, if you will.”

 

“What does Harry have to say about this?”

 

“You think I know? You know fuck well we haven’t talked about it at all. All we did was have a very extensive conversation about our preferences in the bedroom. Like, we covered every topic imaginable.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“What do you mean what?”

 

“How many times have you had sex with him, mate?”

 

“That’s personal, Payno.”

 

“Louis.”

 

“Define sex.”

 

“Louis.”

 

“Fine. Three times. Kind of.”

 

“Kind of?”

 

Louis decides to go for blaise in the hopes that Liam won’t realize how much this is actually affecting him. His stomach is churning with guilt and worry but still he keeps his voice steady. “I finger-fucked him the first time, then watched him jack off and basically told him what to do, and then yesterday we made out and dry humped each other until we came, so.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“I know, okay? I know I’m awful.” Louis groans frustratedly and decides to get up, pulling on warm clothes so he can go outside and speak aloud without fearing he’s going to wake the entire house.

 

“You’re fine, Louis. Seriously. I know you and I know how you handle things with people you care about, so I have no doubt that everything between you two will be okay. Whether you decide to have a relationship with him or not.”

 

Louis nods along as he rushes out of the house, feeling on edge because of how quiet everything is in the eerie morning. Once outside, he breathes easier, walking down the street to get farther away.

 

“That’s the thing, though. I could do a relationship with him, I think it would be interesting and rewarding and maybe I could help him. But he doesn’t want a relationship with me, Liam. He just wants to sleep with me. Not just me, but anyone. He just wants to sleep with someone and he knows I get worried when he finds strangers or goes to Roman, so he’s thinking that it’ll be mutually beneficial if we sleep together. So I can keep him safe and take care of him and he can quell his insane sex drive.”

 

“Are you sure he’s not just saying that, though?”

 

“Just last week he was crying about how much he loves Roman and how upset he is that Roman found someone better to replace him. And like, he’s never… I don’t know- I mean, he’s affectionate with me and everything but it feels like it’s just because he wants some sort of physical connection and it doesn’t matter who it’s from.”

 

“Really, though? I mean Lou, come on, think about it. He lived with me for a while and never once did we hold hands or cuddle in his bed or kiss for God’s sake. Don’t get me wrong, Harry is very touchy-feely but he also doesn’t let people in, like, ever. Which is exactly what he’s done with you. Even if he thinks of you guys as just friends right now, which I doubt he does but if that’s the case, the trust that exists between you two is important and if he hasn’t realized it yet he will, and he’ll see that’s not something he can find with just anyone. You’re good for him, Lou, and I’m sure he sees that.”

 

“I just feel so gross, though. Like he’s using me for sex. Because he is.”

 

“But you have to know he cares for you.”

 

“Yeah, but not enough to respect the fact that I don’t want to have sex without a relationship. I’ve told him that and he just doesn’t care.”

 

“He’s probably not ready for a relationship, though.”

 

“Yeah, fucking hell, I _know_ he’s not ready for a relationship. He’s a mess.”

 

“So what are you going to do?”

 

“Go along with it, I guess. I mean, the sex isn’t bad. It’s great. Because I like him. And want to take care of him. I’m just worried because he could just turn around and leave me for someone else, just like that.”

 

“So go on and make him see how much he needs and wants you.”

 

“It’s not that simple.”

 

“Have you tried talking to him?”

 

“No, but it doesn’t matter. He made it clear what he wanted.”

 

Liam makes a noise of agreement. “Alright, I get that, and I respect your decisions and everything. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing and I think it’ll all work out eventually.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“So how are things with his parents and everything? I still don’t get why his dad punched you in the bathroom of a funeral home.”

 

“Oh, right. So like, you’d think after we’ve been sexual with each other, things would be weird, but they’re not. I love daytime Harry, he’s enjoyable and fun to be around. Like, he’s normal, and it’s great. Sometimes he spaces out or dissociates or gets like, triggered by something but most of the time it’s as if he never faced any trauma.”

 

“That’s good then, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. We haven’t really been awkward around each other even though we’ve done things that just friends shouldn’t do, and he doesn’t have any problem acknowledging our activities or whatever. So that’s nice. At the very least it’s brought us closer together.”

 

“Nice.”

 

“So at the wake, his parents came over and were being real assholes to him. And to me, but I don’t give a fuck. They’re just awful people. They left to go talk to someone else and be their fake-cheery selves, and Harry was really upset so I suggested we go make out in the bathroom because it seemed like the only logical thing to do, even though obviously I see the flaws in that now.”

 

“Shit, Lou, yeah. What the fuck?”

 

“I like kissing him, and we had kissed a shit ton earlier than day, remember? It made him happy. I wanted to make him happy again. So we were making out in the bathroom and his dad came in and started screaming, calling Harry all this awful homophobic shit and completely ignoring me. And he tried to get Harry to leave but he had completely clammed up and refused to move so I was just holding him, and the asshole tried to pull him away from me so I screamed, and he decked me in the face and fled. So, yeah.”

 

“Shit, Louis…”

 

“I know. And we stayed over last night and it’s weird as fuck, Li. Like, his parents are so strange. I can see how hard they were on him when he was a kid and I don’t know, there are just so many different ways they abused him and it makes me feel sick because there’s nothing to do about it.”

 

“Right. The best thing is distance. Which you’re not getting when you’re sharing a house with them.”

 

“Exactly.” Louis looks out at the evergreen trees and the vast, desolate fields beyond. The white snow, the gray sky, the cold air which makes everything bleak and depressing. “You know, last night they threatened him and said if he doesn’t move out from my apartment within the next month, they’ll stop paying for his school.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah, I know. He has three more semesters and not enough financial aid from Colombia to keep going there if his parents stop paying. So he’s gonna look for an apartment as soon as we get back, and when he finds one he’s gonna move out.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“I guess so.” He crouches down, suddenly feeling very tired and just wanting to curl up in the snow and fall asleep for a while. “I don’t know what I’ll do when I’m living all alone again.”

 

“Oh Lou…” Liam says softly, in quiet acknowledgment that the situation Louis’ in right now isn’t exactly the easiest problem to deal with. “You’ll still see him, though, like you’ll visit each other and hang out and everything. They can’t stop you from doing that.”

 

“I know, but you get what I mean.”

 

“I do. You think he’s not going to put any effort into being around you anymore, because you think the only thing holding you together is the fact that you live together.”

 

“It’s true, Li.”

 

“Maybe at the beginning, but not now. He’s dependent on you.”

 

Louis scoffs. “For sex.”

 

“At the very least. So you’ll have your agreement and you’ll see him every day, then.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“It’ll be okay. Whatever happens.”

 

“Yeah… I guess I know that. Thanks, though, for listening to me whine and everything.”

 

“Of course. So just keep spending time with him and you’ll figure things out from there. You’ve accepted that you have a crush on him, right?”

 

“Calling it a crush makes it sound so childish.”

 

“You like him and you want to be in a romantic relationship with him.”

 

Louis groans, standing up and pressing his phone harder. “I don’t know, though. I want to be whatever he needs me to be. I want to take care of him. What if the best thing for me to be to him is just a friend?”

 

“Then you’ll be just a friend. But you know it’s not. You know you two are meant to be.”

 

“I don’t know that for sure, though. I don’t know. It fucking sucks.”

 

“You’ll be fine. Just be careful. With Harry and with yourself.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

 

“I mean it, Louis. You have to take care of yourself first. Everything else comes second, okay? If you’re uncomfortable with something, don’t let anyone push you into doing it. Do what’s best for yourself first, and then worry about taking care of other people. You can’t just give your life away.”

 

Louis makes a noise of affront. “I’m not selfish, though. Harry needs my help and just because that’s not best for _me_ doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do it.”

 

“If you keep living like that, you’re gonna get hurt. You have to talk to him and tell him what’s making you upset or uncomfortable with whatever agreement you have. This is obviously toll on you and you already have so much on your plate. I have no idea how the hell you’re doing it all.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Thanks, Li.”

 

“Of course. Be careful. Good luck.”

  
  


…

  
  


Louis trudges back through the snow to the house, and slips back into bed but still doesn’t fall asleep. Around daybreak he takes a shower and gets ready, before sitting in the guest room for a long while just thinking about everything.

 

Breakfast is stilted and uncomfortably quiet. The four of them sit at the kitchen table and make no attempt at conversation. Mostly, Louis stares at his plate, Harry stares out the window, his dad stares at the newspaper, and his mom stares at the three of them like she’s waiting for someone to say something. The dialogue she hopes for never happens.

 

After that, they get in the car together and drive to church. Louis hasn’t been to church in years and it seems fitting that he’s going for a funeral. They’re all dressed in black and Harry’s mom is doing her makeup in the mirror. His dad clenches the steering wheel tightly and drives aggressively, cutting people off and getting pissed when they honk at him.

 

In the back, Louis holds Harry’s hand. Harry stares out the window like he did at breakfast but this time the scenery is moving and he seems to be lost in it. Louis would be more worried that he was dissociating if it wasn’t for the fact that every so often, Harry squeezes Louis’ fingers or runs his thumb over Louis’ knuckles.

 

They should be more concerned about hiding the fact that they’re holding hands, because his parents are right there and they could turn around at any moment and see. But Louis realizes he doesn’t care. In fact, in some way he wants them to turn around and see Harry holding onto Louis like he cares about him, like he wants to be with him. It feels like a victory over evil and Louis wants to rub it in their faces.

 

It takes Louis too long to realize they’re driving to the funeral home instead of the church. They pull into the parking lot, and he’s confused, until Harry explains to him that they’re pallbearers and will be bearing the casket at church, so they need to pick it up from the funeral home first. Only the men in the family participate, and they’re aren’t enough here at the moment so they ask Louis to help. He and Harry are on opposite sides of the casket as the six of them lift it up and carry it outside in morbid silence, sliding it into the van that will transport it to church. It’s something Louis has never done before and it feels wrong for it to be the body of someone he has never met.

 

At the church, they bring the casket in for the funeral and then Louis files in beside Harry’s family to the second row. Bowing before the pew and crossing himself, he wonders how he got here and thinks that if someone told him a year ago that he would be in a small town in Illinois attending a funeral a few days before Christmas, he never would’ve believed them.

 

The priest speaks in macabre eloquence but Louis barely listens, too focused on the reactions of Harry beside him. He’s trembling, hands shaking ever so slightly but Louis notices. When the priest acknowledges the family Harry lets out a tiny sob and then presses the back of his hand to his mouth, hard, to keep himself from crying outwardly again. When Louis looks over he sees tears spilling out of his eyes.

 

Louis comforts him in whatever way he can. It isn’t much, but he tries. He sets his hand on his lower back and rubs soothingly, giving a steady pressure that proves he’s there, that Harry isn’t alone.

  
  


…

  
  


At the cemetery, they stand in the cold as the priest says a prayer. A few family members speak as well and then they’re all setting their roses on the casket, saying their goodbyes.

 

Harry is silent and unresponsive to anyone who speaks to him, crying all the while. Louis sticks by his side, clinging to his coat with a small hand on his sleeve, as if he’s afraid he’ll float away or simply disappear. As if he thinks a few fingers grasping black wool will ever do anything to keep him safe.

 

The funeral ends and people scatter, crossing the grounds to their cars which are lined up on the road like ants in a procession. All extended family is invited back to Harry’s parents’ house for refreshments and stilted conversation. Harry’s parents are still speaking with one of the groundskeepers, giving Harry and Louis a bit of time to themselves.

 

They don’t say a word as Harry leads them away from the uncovered grave, the casket resting deep in the ground and marred with dirt from when the men of the family passed a shovel around to ceremoniously scatter earth over the grave. Someone who works at the cemetery will finish the job.

 

Harry walks with purpose through the aisles of graves as Louis hurries to match his pace, clinging to his sleeve. They walk for a long while, tracing an invisible path until they get to the top of a hill in an area secluded by beautifully old trees.

 

Louis reads the tombstones but finds no meaning in them, nothing out of the ordinary.

 

“What is it?” He asks uneasily, watching Harry’s face to gauge his expression.

 

“I used to come here all the time,” Harry says, staring out at the rolling hills covered in graves, each marked by a tombstone, some new but most of them old, especially the ones they’re standing near now. “I don’t know why. It was always just a place to escape to.”

 

“The cemetery?” Louis asks, thinking of a younger Harry coming here to spend time away from home, always running from something. It’s a chilling thought. Haunting.

 

“It’s morbid, I know.”

 

Louis nods in acknowledgment and holds his sleeve a little tighter.

 

“Come here, I want to show you something.”

 

Following blindly as always, Louis trails after him, their steps quiet and muffled by the snow. Harry leads them to a gated garden, the rusty metal door hidden by vines and overgrowth. He brushes them away and fiddles with the broken lock, pulling the gate open as the metal creaks and groans like a ghost, upsetting the otherwise silent ambiance.

 

The garden belongs to a single family, each member with their own memorial to mark their grave. Harry pulls him deep into the garden to a lone tombstone estranged from the rest with an inscription that nearly makes Louis’ heart stop.

 

_ALL MY LIFE AND SADLY_ _THE DAYS HAVE GONE BY_

_I WHO DREAMED WILDLY AND MADLY_

_AM HAPPY TO DIE_

 

“Shit, Harry.”

 

“I know.”

 

“That’s so fucked up.” Who even decided to put that on a tombstone? Usually the inscriptions said nice sentiments like _dearly beloved_ and _may her memory be eternal_ or something lengthier like _safe in the hallowed quiets of the past._

 

But this is… different. This is dark. And Harry is running his hand along the top to brush the snow away, touching it reverently like he _relates._

 

He doesn’t know what to do. Why does he never know what to do?

 

Sometimes there are no words of comfort to speak. Sometimes there are only hushed breaths in the cold, Louis’ arms winding around Harry’s back and holding him tightly.

 

They don’t say anything and they don’t let go until a while later when they hear his mother calling for them, her cold voice carrying over the graves of the dead.

  
  


 


	3. The Mending

 

  
  


By now, the upswings of Harry’s hypersexual tendencies are more predictable, to the point where Louis is hardly even surprised that night when Harry begs for Louis to fuck him.

 

They’re sitting downstairs on the couch together, in front of the smoldering fire which warms the room but can never truly get rid of the chill in the house that supersedes all physicality. His parents have already gone to bed, and all is quiet.

 

“You’re sure?” Louis asks, for the millionth time as they scale the stairs and head up to Harry’s childhood bedroom and it feels so wrong in the worst ways. The only part that feels right is Harry pressed up against his back, all warmth and comfort. It feels like their bodies belong together, even if nothing else does.

 

“Want you so much,” Harry whispers in his ear, guiding him towards the first door on the left at the top of the stairs. He pushes it open and it creaks loudly enough for them to both cringe, worried that any little noise will wake Harry’s parents. What will they do then?

 

It seems Harry doesn’t care. He closes the door behind them and there isn't a lock on it. If there was, Louis would feel a lot better about what they’re on the precipice of doing. The thought that anyone could walk in at any minute hangs in the back of his mind, uncomfortable like storm clouds visible on the horizon. Threatening.

 

They stand there in the middle of the room and stare at each other. Harry looks impatient but Louis is dead set on slowing things down, so both of them have time to back out if they need to. At the rate they’re going, the only person who’s likely to chicken out is Louis, which is pathetic when he thinks about it because Harry is the one who’s traumatized.

 

So Louis stands there and pauses under what he hopes is the guise of checking Harry out. He takes the time to catalogue characteristics about him because he’s afraid this is a huge mistake, and after this Harry will run away from him and they’ll never be this close again.

 

He looks at Harry and he sees the dark clothes he’s wearing, some of it leftover from the funeral and some newer additions. Earlier in the evening, after the last of the extended family had left the house, he swapped his dressy trousers for black leggings. He’s still wearing the expensive-looking black jumper from earlier but it looks cozier now in a way, rather than cold and stiff and standoffish. The dark colors make his winter skin look unapologetically pale and smooth in the best way. He’s like a god of the underworld in a way, dark and troubled and so irrevocably handsome.

 

Harry starts pulling off his clothes and Louis isn’t going to stop him. He leaves them in a messy pile on the floor, forgotten almost immediately after they’re dropped to the ground. In a moment he stands there in nothing but his underwear like he’s waiting for instructions and Louis sighs, overwhelmed and kind of like _What am I going to do with you?_

 

“Any preferences?”

 

“Fuck me hard.”

 

“Alright,” Louis agrees, motioning for Harry to situate himself on the bed. They haven’t discussed nearly enough logistics for this to be okay. He’s read so many warnings about rushing into sex, especially as intense as Harry wants, but there’s nothing to do now. They’ve already crossed the line. “You know the color system, babe?”

 

Harry nearly preens, a bit shy as he sits on the edge of the bed, shuffling backwards until his head hits the pillow. It takes Louis a moment to realize it’s because of the term of endearment. His long legs are clumsy but there’s something so sickly attractive about it, how he fumbles and squirms to get comfortable. As if he’s innocent and doesn’t know what he’s doing, as if this isn’t something he’s done time and time again and even asked for it explicitly by name. It’s all a guise, even if the clumsiness is real. He is not so pure.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Louis digs through the front pocket of Harry’s bag until he finds what he’s looking for, condoms and lubricant. “Tell me, so I know we’re on the same page.”

 

Harry inhales a sharp breath and sits up a little, obviously affected by thoughts of what they’re about to do. “Green means go, yellow is slow down, and red is stop.”

 

“Good, that’s perfect baby,” Louis praises, distractedly petting his ankle as he gets undressed. “You know I’ll always listen to you. It’s okay if you need to slow down or stop. Just be honest with me, okay? I need to know that you’ll say what you’re feeling and you’ll tell me if you need to stop.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry gasps, probably just to placate Louis and get things moving faster. He lifts his hips off the bed impatiently, already visibly hard even through his pants, which is impressive since they’ve only just started and he hasn’t touched himself at all. He must be an imaginative person, then, probably fantasizes about things like this all the time. Knows exactly what he wants, and how he wants it.

 

“You trust me? You trust me to take care of you?” Louis is looking for confirmation, knowing that Harry probably doesn't give a flying fuck about trust. But Louis does, it’s important to him, and it’s not something he’s willing to compromise. He sits on the edge of the bed as Harry squirms with need and want, so impatient and unwilling to wait another moment.

 

“I do,” he cries, too loud for the fact that the house is otherwise dead silent. His parents are in the room at the end of the hall and any little noise has the chance of waking them. “I do, Daddy, I trust you.”

 

For someone who has never been called Daddy before and frankly has no desire to be called Daddy at all, in any facet of his life, Louis takes it well. In fact, he might be kind of getting used to it. The way Harry says it makes it sound desirable, makes something deep and hot unfurl in his core and that freaks him out a bit, if he’s being honest.

 

He fights to embrace it, though. Or at the very least, ignore it. He crawls up the bed on his hands and knees, hovering over Harry and staring down at him. Why does it always feel like he’s taking advantage? He feels as though he’s in an unfair position of power and Harry is some innocent flower about to be corrupted. He knows that isn’t true but that’s what it looks like when he looms over Harry, something dark and depraved hovering over an actual angel with pale skin and big eyes glistening with unshed tears.

 

Deciding to test it out and gauge his reaction, he asks, “What’s your color?”

 

“Green, Daddy, _please.”_

 

Louis scans his visage a moment longer, searching for any hint of worry or regret. He finds nothing but want. Dipping down, he pulls Harry’s bottom lip between his own lips and kisses him softly, teasing in a way that promises more. Harry keeps his hands by his sides, twisting his fingers in the sheets, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch and this time Louis doesn’t give him explicit permission, he just leaves him questioning and wondering. There’ll be lots of opportunities for touching later. For now he wants Harry to want it, wants the desire to build until it’s unbearable, making the release that much more pleasurable.

 

They kiss for a while but Louis keeps his body elevated above Harry’s so the only contact they have is their lips. For once, he’s seeing the pay off of going to the gym at least twice a week for almost two years now; he can plank above Harry as they kiss and not feel strained or tired at all.

 

Harry on the other hand is quite impatient with their position. He keeps jutting his hips up and brushing them against Louis’, moaning too loudly all the while.

 

“Fuck, you have to be quiet,” Louis groans, stopping abruptly and pulling away after one of Harry’s particularly loud moans.

 

Harry whimpers but otherwise he does as he’s told, muffling his soft sounds against Louis’ skin and containing them only somewhat effectively. It’ll have to do. Louis isn’t cruel enough to silence him completely; in fact he isn’t sure exactly what it would take to get Harry to turn perfectly quiet.

 

From there, they kiss for a while until Louis is just as hard as Harry. That’s when he taps Harry’s hips and tells him to get out of his underwear. Usually Louis finds it sexy to undress other people but with Harry there’s something about ordering him to do something and watching as he scrambles to do as he’s told, desperate to please.

 

Harry fumbles with the fabric, sliding them down his thighs which are marred with unmistakable scars, the proof of his omnipresent childhood abuse. In another universe, Louis would take his time, running his fingers along the small red marks. In another universe, he would kiss all over them, being warm and soft. In another universe, he would show his appreciation and care to Harry, proving how worthy he is of treatment that is tender and loving.

 

They’re not in another universe, though. They’re in this one, and as much as Louis is realizing he likes Harry, he’s still not stupid enough to think this is anything but a mutually beneficial relationship that involves kissing, sex, and other intimacies. If they were in a committed relationship maybe Louis would stroke his thighs and kiss his scars. But they’re not.

 

So he doesn’t.

 

Instead, he pretends to be impatient as Harry struggles to get out of his underwear, which gets tangled around his legs. He waits and watches with raised brows as Harry blushes and kicks them off the bed, suddenly bashful.

 

“You finished now?”

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

 

It takes everything within Louis not to crack a smile. To fight it off he busies himself with something else, dragging his hands down Harry’s skin and noticing the trail of goosebumps he leaves behind, feeling a bit smug.

 

They have hours at least until they have to get up in the morning for one last day in this godforsaken town. But for some reason it feels as though the clock is ticking and they need to _hurry._

 

So he wastes no time in running his hands all over Harry’s tummy and hips before slipping a hand between his legs, foregoing his dick which is aching hard and blushing at the tip. Louis has yet in their relationship to really actually touch it with intent. There’s something about denying Harry that’s so pleasurable and he revels in the way Harry whines at the touch being so narrowly missed to the spot where he wants it the most.

 

The gains are more worth it where Louis’ fingers are at, anyway. Harry will thank him later, he tells himself, as he strokes the skin of his taint and enjoys the sound of his stifled whimpers. He’s still not quiet enough but it’ll have to do, for now at least. He has no idea what to do about the noises the bed will make when he’s fucking him hard later, because even now when they just shift around a little it creaks loudly.

 

Uncaring, Louis presses his dry thumb to Harry’s tight pink hole and dips just the tip of it in, careful not to go any further without lube. Harry’s reaction is immediate, crying out sharply and wiggling his hips away from the touch, body torn between asking for more and begging for less.

 

He’s tempted to ask his color but he doesn’t, knowing it’ll be green, trusting Harry to say something if it isn’t. Instead, he says, “What do you want, baby? Tell me what you want.”

 

“You,” Harry gasps, “I want you.”

 

Louis knows what he means but he’s not done playing. “Be more specific.” He pulls his thumb out in favor of rubbing it around his rim, feeling it flutter as Harry tenses. His skin is the hottest here at his core, actually radiating heat and Louis would be lying if he said he doesn’t like how it feels to be so close to this primal warmth.

 

“In me,” he whispers, eyes wide and staring down towards where Louis is touching him. “Want you in me, want you to fuck me… Want to feel you for days.”

 

Louis circles his rim some more with his dry finger before retracting and getting the lube. He coats his fingers, swirls one around his entrance, and then pushes one in without preface or warning. The thing about anal is that it’s most pleasurable around the actual entrance, and everything else is just a different and perhaps uncomfortable pressure, unless you go for the prostate. Louis isn’t there yet, and even though he knows it would be more pleasurable to Harry to stay shallow with his fingers, he fucks him deep and hardly pays any care to the outside of his hole.

 

Harry actually cries out this time, loud, almost a scream. Immediately Louis pulls his hand away, finger all the way out, hole left empty, and glares at him. “If you’re going to be that loud, we can’t do this. I told you to be quiet.”

 

“Sorry- I’m sorry, it’s just-” He falls quiet again, pressing his lips together obediently at the glare with which Louis levels him.

 

He waits a long moment, making sure Harry is actually going to obey orders before pressing his finger inside again and swirling it around. He’s not mad at Harry but it’s easy to pretend to be, especially seeing how worked up it gets him, how desperate he is to please. How it makes him frantic just trying to make Louis happy, trying to be docile, trying to be subservient.

 

Harry moans this time through his closed mouth, muffling the sound, and Louis lets it slide. He’s trying. Besides, it might be the hottest sound he’s ever heard before in his life, and it’s all for him.

 

“Still sore from when I fucked you the other day?” It’s a rhetorical question but Harry gasps at it in response, nodding his head a little before biting his lip to keep quiet. _What a sight,_ Louis thinks dully, wondering what in the hell he’s going to do with a man in bed like this, his long hair splayed out on the pillow, tangled curls around him like a halo. Absolutely, horrifyingly beautiful. Words aren’t enough.

 

He fucks Harry on one finger for a while, knowing it’s not enough but enjoying the fact that Harry rolls his hips and fucks himself down on it like he’s trying to find more. So fucking filthy, Louis doesn’t know what to do with him. So he slips another finger inside and scissors them to spread him out, taking his time even though there’s something in his heart telling him to hurry and rush. A few more pumps of his fingers and Harry is throwing his head back on the pillow, moaning through closed lips so it sounds like a melodic hum.

 

“‘M ready-”

 

Louis doesn’t listen to him. He pulls his fingers out and Harry squirms with the emptiness. The next time he pushes them back in, he adds another for a total of three. It’s a tight fit and he knows Harry must be sore, but he doesn’t really care as he pumps them in and out at a fast pace, leaving Harry beautifully breathless with it all, taking it so well without complaints.

 

Tempted to press his pinky finger in too, Louis refrains because he knows there are limits. They’ll work up to that. For now he’s satisfied with just three and the way it has Harry’s skin turning red and heated, glowing and glistening with sweat, his cheeks rosy pink and unbelievably cute.

 

“Color?”

 

“Green. _Please.”_

 

Satisfied that he’s gotten Harry down to monosyllabic words, and one-word sentences, and fucking _begging,_ he pulls his fingers out and slides a condom on himself. His mind flashes back to their conversation a few days ago when they first arrived in Elmhurst and discussed their sexual preferences. Louis has always thought it was stupid for guys to obsess over fucking bare, because there isn’t really that much of a difference in terms of sensations, but right now the thought of it is making him harder than he already is and he can’t get the idea out of his mind. Maybe that’ll be possible for them to try in the future. It makes him burn with want.

 

“Are we doing it like this?”

 

Harry shakes his head, gripping the sheets hard, nearly incoherent. “Whatever… Whatever you want…”

 

Louis likes the way Harry is now, splayed out on the bed, spreading his legs open wider as an invitation or maybe just an acquiescence. Giving up all power, handing it right over, willingly, to Louis.

 

He grabs his hips and strokes them softly to get him to relax a bit before rubbing his tip over his hole teasingly. Since he’s a responsible person, he drizzles more lubricant over Harry’s hole and then covers the condom in it, spreading it around until everything is slippery and slick. Harry may like it when people are rough with him but that doesn’t mean Louis is going to hurt him by not being thorough.

 

The first press inside is like standing outside in a thunderstorm, feeling the earth shake with every strike. Exciting and electric, but _dangerous._ Louis gets lost in it, in the warm heat of Harry, and so he presses in too quickly and Harry cries out in pain, hands fumbling in the space between them like he’s trying to get Louis to stop but he doesn’t know how.

 

He pulls out completely before he even thinks about it, before the foggy haze of lust even clears from his mind to realize that was probably more than a bit uncomfortable for Harry. He sits back all the way on his heels, putting a distance between himself and Harry, mind spinning, completely ready to give it all up just to make sure he’s okay.

 

“Wait- No- What?”

 

Louis soothes him with a hand on his thigh, palm grazing the shimmery sweat coating his smooth skin. “Sorry.”

 

Harry tugs him closer by his arm, like he’s trying to get Louis to stick it back in him, even though he just hurt him. “Want you,” he whispers, brow furrowed like he’s confused, and why doesn’t he understand that Louis isn’t just going to keep fucking him, when he’s in pain like that and obviously not opened enough? _“Need you…”_

 

“Baby, relax.”

 

He finally meets Louis’ eyes again, having previously been distracted by the sight of Louis’ dick, hard and bobbing between them when he moves. “Why’d you stop?”

 

Louis shakes his head, incredulous. “Because it sounded like it hurt? And you were trying to get me to stop?”

 

“I wasn’t,” Harry argues. “I like it when it hurts.”

 

Louis is a little speechless at that. He stutters for a moment and then ends up saying, “Yeah, well, I don’t like it when it hurts you. So. We’re doing it my way. Which means if it hurts you have to tell me.”

 

Harry stares at him.

 

“And that’s an order,” Louis adds, feeling stupid. It must be effective, though, because Harry complies, nodding desperately and still trying to pull him closer.

 

In order to open him up more, Louis goes back to his fingers, starting all over again with one. Harry actually whines with impatience, reaching his own hand down to slip his fingers inside beside Louis’, but Louis doesn’t let that happen. No way. He bumps his hand out of the vicinity of his ass, commanding him to not touch himself. Then, just to be a tease, he fucks in and out with only one finger for a long while, long after he’s ready for more.

 

The sounds he’s coaxing out of Harry are soft and muted, again like he’s trying his hardest not to be noisy. It isn’t working very well but Louis will give him a pass, for now at least. He slips another finger in, keeping a moderate pace for another few minutes. Then he squeezes the third inside and Harry’s face scrunches up as he gasps, open-mouthed and desperate.

 

Patiently, Louis counts to one hundred in his head, three times over, pumping his fingers in and out all the while, periodically slowing to spread them wide and stretch Harry out. Coaxing him open. He likes the feeling of his fingers against Harry’s walls, stroking the warm heat, really feeling him. It has Harry writhing with pleasure and desire, the need for _more._

 

So Louis goes back for the lube and really drizzles it over his hole, working it in with his already messy fingers. The lube is getting everywhere, and they really should’ve put a towel down before they started, because nothing will be more suspicious than Harry having to wash his sheets in the morning. It’s too late now, though, there are already wet spots on the bed from lube, precome, and sweat. It’s gross but neither of them care, too focused on the warm heat of their bodies pressed together and how it’ll feel when they finally come.

 

“Alright, baby. I’m gonna go slow, okay?”

 

Harry nods again, frantic and happy that Louis is finally going to give him what he wants.

 

Given the okay, Louis pushes in once again, this time with more care and gentleness. He gets as far as just his tip pressed inside, Harry’s body squeezing tight like he’s trying to pull him in even more. Louis doesn’t let him, though, just stays there and enjoys the fiery heat burning low in his core, spreading all throughout his body. Nothing is ever as good as the first press inside. He could stay here forever if it wasn’t for Harry’s desperate need to come.

 

So he takes it inch by inch, slowing sinking deeper into Harry and pausing often to give him many opportunities to adjust. This time, there are no cries of pain. Harry only winces and that’s when Louis stops, stilling completely and feeling the flutter of Harry’s hole around him as he struggles to relax.

 

“Christ, you’re huge,” Harry whispers, shifting his hips back and forth like he’s trying to get used to the feeling of fullness. Louis is only halfway in. He leans back a bit, taking his eyes off Harry’s face in favor of looking at the place where they’re connected, seeing Harry’s pink hole stretched around his length, and he thinks _I could come right now if I really wanted to, just from the sight of this._

 

“You good?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you can go faster.”

 

Louis doesn’t go faster. He sinks in another inch and then waits it out, feeling Harry clench around him even tighter. Deciding to be nice, he removes one of his hands from its tight grip on Harry’s hip, in favor of placing it on his dick instead, stroking softly. The pleasure from the touch is enough to get him to relax a bit more, allowing Louis to slip in deeper.

 

“Are you comfortable like this?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry mutters back, impatient.

 

Louis glares at him and again doesn’t listen, taking matters into his own hands. He grabs the extra pillow and manages to get it beneath Harry’s ass, changing the angle so it’s easier and more comfortable for both of them. Using his hands, he spreads Harry’s legs a little wider, conscious of the limits to his flexibility and trying to make sure his inner thighs won’t be too sore the next day from being splayed out like this. He hikes one of Harry’s legs up so it’s bent at the knee, foot flat on the bed.

 

Then, he holds his hip again with one hand, uses the other to tease his cock, and goes another inch. Then, pause. Inch. Pause. Almost there.

 

When he’s fully seated, he lets out a deep sigh and watches Harry’s face for any signs of discomfort. He’s at the point where if Harry suddenly decided he didn’t want sex anymore, he would pull out right away. It’s crazy to think not everyone would be willing to do that.

 

He doesn’t find a single sign or expression that depicts anything other than pleasure and relief on Harry’s face. Harry, whose eyes are locked with Louis’, lips parted, wanting more. Always wanting more.

 

“Daddy, please.”

 

“Be quiet,” Louis bites, not willing to hear Harry call him Daddy anymore. It makes him feel weird. Not bad, just weird. He moves all the same, pulling out to the tip and pushing back in, the sensation so good he sees stars. Eventually he finds a good pace, moderate and satisfying, matching his thrusts to the movement of his hand on Harry’s dick, pulling him off.

 

Harry squirms at all the different sensations and mixtures of satisfaction, moving restlessly on the bed even with his hips pinned down. His hands fist the sheets, and Louis’ under the impression he would be touching himself if that wasn’t out of bounds.

 

“Faster, faster,” he gasps, back arching off the bed. He keeps trying to match Louis’ thrusts by rolling his hips but Louis won’t let him, one hand squeezing his hip tightly to pin him down and keep him from doing exactly that. Making Harry take what he gives him.

 

Still, Louis obliges, not because Harry wants him to but because he himself wants to. He moves faster, fucking harder, getting frustrated with Harry being too loud the immediate moment he starts a quicker pace. He slips his hand off his shaft, running it up his tummy and chest, overpassing his neck and going straight for his mouth, two fingers slipping inside to keep him quiet. Harry sucks on them obediently, tongue wet and warm against his touch. It works for a while, keeping him busy and full, enough that he isn’t so noisy.

 

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, loud and unashamed. Louis doesn’t relent, fucking in faster, knowing that the wet sounds and everything else too is too much to be inconspicuous. They’re going to get caught and then where will they be?

 

Louis doesn’t care. Harry asked for this—no, _begged_ for this, and Louis is finally giving it to him. He fucks harder and harder still, the bed shaking, millimeters away from hitting the wall and really making a noise that will no doubt wake up everybody in the house if their previous loudness hasn’t already.

 

Harry goes completely pliant, his body melting into the mattress and relaxing infinitely, only sensual sounds of pleasure leaving his mouth from where his tongue is still pressed beneath Louis’ two fingers. His toes are curled, fingers too twisting around the sheets, tugging on them because he doesn’t know what else to do. Louis hikes his one leg up higher, easily because Harry is so compliant and malleable like this, drowning in ecstasy.

 

Approaching the precipice of his orgasm, he somehow gets too loud even with two fingers in his mouth.

 

“Harry, fuck, shut up,” Louis gasps, about to come himself. He’s been careful to keep the bed from slamming against the wall, even if it is already squeaking obscenely, and he’d really rather not have Harry ruin all his efforts by crying out instead.

 

Harry ignores him, still being too loud, uncaring.

 

Louis pulls out to punish him, knowing how close he was to falling over the edge and coming hard. “You have to shut the fuck up,” he whispers harshly, staring deep into Harry’s eyes. They’ve gone hazy, compliant like the rest of him. Louis knows then that there’s no way he’ll be quiet unless Louis physically makes him shut up.

 

So he thinks through his options very briefly and then flips Harry over harshly with a shove so he’s lying on his tummy. Harry gasps at the unexpected movement and shifts his hips, sticking his ass in the air. Louis presses him down by his lower back, sliding the pillow beneath him so his cock is trapped between his crotch and the pillowcase, unable to be touched. Then he drops a heavy hand to the back of Harry’s head, stroking his neck softly and pressing his face into the sheets until he can’t make a single sound aside from a very muffled mumble or moan.

 

“Kick me if it’s too much, okay?”

 

Harry nods as best as he can with Louis pressing his face into the mattress. The movement isn’t visible but Louis can feel it through the hand heavy on his neck, so he takes that as the go-ahead, lining himself up again and pushing in slowly, making sure Harry feels every inch.

 

He’s tighter in this position, legs pressed together with Louis’ on the outside this time, and he can’t fuck in as deep as before but somehow it feels even more pleasurable. Maybe that’s just due to the unabashed view of Harry’s ass he has in this position, which really makes up for any discomfort. Louis can’t resist from touching, so he keeps one hand on Harry’s neck and the other explores his body, groping his ass and feeling him up in a way that’s both reverent and dirty.

 

This time, he doesn’t start slow. As soon as he’s pretty sure Harry has adjusted to the change in position, he pounds into him without apology, chasing his own orgasm. Harry must like it, that Louis is using him for his own pleasure, that he’s just lying there with his face pressed to the mattress so he can’t make a sound, because his body is limber and pliant, letting Louis do with him as he pleases.

 

In all honesty, the minute Harry showed any sign of not wanting to do this, perhaps by fighting against Louis’ hold or kicking him as Louis told him to do, Louis would stop immediately. But this is Harry’s idea, and even though it doesn’t seem to be the most pleasurable, and Louis thinks his body is surely sore, Harry seems to be enjoying it.

 

Is he masochistic? Maybe. Louis could totally see that as a possibility for someone like Harry, someone who seeks out dangerous situations like an abusive boyfriend and goes back for more, always. When they completed that survey for sexual preferences, he said he wanted to try _sustained or major discomfort or pain._ Louis doesn’t even know what that entails, but it sounds intense.

 

In terms of pain, what they’re doing right now isn’t much at all. Momentary and minor. Louis is okay with that, as long as Harry is too.

 

“You’re so good, baby,” Louis whispers to him, leaning down and kissing his shoulder, wondering if he’s allowed to be tender like this, wondering if it’s something Harry wants. He figures after all the harshness of earlier, they can afford a small bit of affection. So he keeps going, whispering shit like, “Look at you, so good, so good for me. You’re doing so well, just taking it like you’re supposed to.”

 

Harry gets a little noisier even with a mouthful of sheets, but he hasn’t kicked Louis yet so Louis keeps going, knowing they’re both close. As much as he’s pretending this is all for him, focused around his own pleasure as Harry just lies there and takes it, he wants to get Harry off first. This is about Harry, about what he wants and what he needs.

 

So Louis pounds into him relentlessly, one hand clenched so tightly around his hip that his grasp will leave bruises, the holding his neck down with an iron grip. Harry doesn’t have much mobility but he finds the small ways to move anyway, twisting the sheets in his fingers and arching his back a little bit. Because he can’t make a sound, and his dick is trapped between his body and the sheets, the only indication Louis has that Harry is coming is the way his entire body tenses for a moment leading up to it, and then the tension releases like a tidal wave and he goes completely relaxed, melting into the bed.

 

It’s only a few more quick strokes before Louis is coming too, feeling the heat that has been building up in his core finally explode. His vision is obscured by bright white light like he’s finally reached eternal paradise and that might actually not be too inaccurate. Unable to hold himself up any longer, he collapses forward on top of Harry’s strong back and kisses his shoulder one more time before lying still to catch his breath.

 

“Good?” Louis asks once he’s recovered enough to form a singular coherent word. It’s an ambiguous question, meaning both _Are you okay?_ and _That was some good ass sex, am I right?_

 

“Fucking Christ,” Harry says, his voice finally deep and quiet enough that there’s minimal risk someone will hear. Louis feels a wave of relief when he realizes they managed to have rough sex in Harry’s childhood bedroom without his parents barging in on them.

 

“Was I too rough?”

 

“No, you were perfect.”

 

Another wave of relief washes over him. Feeling good, he mouths at Harry’s neck, leaving soft kisses on his warm skin. “Good, I’m glad.”

 

He doesn’t want to move but he knows he has to, because there are pertinent things he has to do, like get rid of the condom, and perhaps try to clean up the sheets so Harry has a place to sleep. Still, it takes way too long for him to roll of Harry and actually get up to do something. He wants to stay here forever, swathed in warmth and wrapped up in Harry.

 

Harry stays unmoving and face down on the bed while Louis goes down the hall completely naked and wets a towel in the sink. He comes back and washes Harry with it, wiping his sweaty back before trying to coax him over on his side to clean up the aftermath of his orgasm. It takes a lot of persuasion but eventually he nudges over onto his side and lets Louis run the wet cloth over his chest, tummy, and hips.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

“I suppose I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

 

Harry flops back over much like he was before, but this time he really cuddles into the mattress, closing his eyes sleepily. “Night, Lou.”

 

Louis pulls the sheets up to his chin, smoothing them out and running a hand down his covered arm before pulling the quilt up too. Harry snuggles in even more, seeming calm, relaxed, and blissfully satisfied.

 

“Night, kiddo.” Louis brushes the curls away from his face and kisses his forehead for good measure, feeling something warm swell in his heart. It gets colder when he turns away, sparing one last glance back to see him all cuddled up in bed. It feels wrong to leave him especially after fucking him so hard and being so rough.

 

It feels wrong, but he does it anyways.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Harry looks like hell the next morning.

 

Louis catches sight of him coming down the stairs, and then he can’t look away. It’s only six o’clock but they’re getting back on the road soon to avoid a bad winter storm.

 

His hair is a tangled mess, his skin is sallow and pale, and there are dark circles hanging beneath his eyes that are only a few shades away from looking like bruises. He moves stiffly, clumsily bumping into the corner of the wall on his way down by accident. When he sits down at the table, he fails to hide a wince. It looks painful.

 

Louis slides his own coffee across the table in apology and thinks that Harry shouldn’t look this horrid after rough sex.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

Harry accepts the coffee gratefully and takes a sip even though it’s steaming hot. He wraps his hands around the glass and curls in on himself, shoulders hunching, looking smaller than he really is.

 

It’s a good thing his parents aren’t awake yet, because he looks like obviously fucked-out hell, and Louis is the prime culprit. At least there aren’t any visible hickeys. That would be a disaster.

 

“I feel like shit,” he says. “Didn’t sleep well.”

 

It’s only been a solid five hours since Louis left Harry’s room last night, and as soon as Louis slipped in bed he fell asleep, not waking until his alarm went off fifteen minutes ago. Definitely not enough sleep, and that was with him out cold the entire time. Poor Harry, then.

 

“Why not, babe?” The endearment just slips out, Louis not having planned on saying it. He calls people pet names sometimes but after having literal sex with Harry it definitely has a different connotation.

 

Harry looks up at him like he’s grateful for Louis asking softly, with warmth in his voice. “Bad dream.”

 

Louis’ stomach drops. Usually he wakes up when he hears Harry’s distress, his crying. It worries him to think of Harry all alone last night without anyone to comfort him.

 

“You poor thing,” Louis says, feeling sad. “You can always wake me up, you know. I wouldn’t have minded.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

He waves it off, dismissive. Harry apologizes too much, always. “I’m driving, so you can take a car nap. And we’ll try to get to the hotel quickly for an early night.”

 

“Sounds good. Thank you.”

 

“Of course. Wanna leave now and stop somewhere for breakfast, or should we eat here?”

 

“I gotta say bye to my parents.”

 

“Alright, we’ll wait until then of course. How about you go take a nap on the couch and I’ll wake you when breakfast is ready?”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, love.” He pulls the coffee cup away from Harry and stands up, setting a hand on his upper back and rubbing comfortingly, coaxing him to stand as well. He guides him over to the couch, helping him settle in and covering him in a blanket.

 

Everything about this house is perfect and pristine, looking absolutely untouched. It’s strange to see someone actually living in the space, using it as it’s meant to be used. Harry makes this cold place look a little bit more like home, but even then he seems so out of place.

 

He isn’t sure if Harry’s actually asleep but it’s fine, it doesn’t really matter. Getting busy in the kitchen, he realizes not only that he doesn’t know where anything is located, but also that he doesn’t know really how to cook most breakfast foods. He’s done pancakes before, but they’ve never turned out right, at least not looking anything like Harry’s. Oh well. Maybe today’s the day he figures it out.

 

As it goes, today is not the day. He wakes Harry up in twenty minutes to a depressing failure of a breakfast. It’s still edible, though, just not physically attractive or presentable. Harry laughs only a little and eats them without hesitation, complimenting him politely.

 

“We both know they’re shit, Harry, it’s okay. You can say it.”

 

“They’re not though, they’re just different,” he argues, apparently still set on not insulting the weird crinkled “pancakes” on his plate. He eats them all, leaving nothing but a sticky mess of syrup, as if to prove a point.

 

Louis’ doing the dishes when Harry’s father comes downstairs and enters the kitchen. Harry is caught hovering near the sink because Louis won’t let him help out, begging him instead to go sit down and take another power nap.

 

It’s awkward and uncomfortable, laughter dying out quicker than anything. Louis busies himself by scrubbing at a nonexistent spot on the frying pan, feeling bad for Harry who has no such distraction.

 

The first thing he says isn’t _good morning_ or _hello_ or anything as cordial. It’s something about the apartment, ordering Harry to move out. Away from Louis. He doesn’t say it like that but they all know what he means.

 

At times like this, Harry is a shyer version of his true self. Tentative, quiet, docile… It’s so uncomfortable to see it, especially because it’s such a sharp contrast from who he really is when he isn’t so nervous and afraid.

 

God. Louis has to get him out of here. They can’t leave fast enough.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


They’re on the road by 6:45, and Harry is asleep by 7:00.

 

It’s quiet on the highway, despite the typical morning traffic at rush hour. It’s not as crowded as usual, perhaps due to the fact that tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

 

His birthday. With everything that’s been going on lately, it feels as though he’s forgotten it entirely. Usually, that’s due to the holiday rush, but this year it’s something different entirely. For months, he has been swept away by Harry.

 

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, although it doesn’t leave much time for Louis to care for himself like he often needs to. Harry is good for him though, he thinks, as he glances over at him curled up on the passenger’s seat, head resting on the cold window, breath coming out in long exhales that say he’s sleeping peacefully.

 

He called Liam the other day and they talked everything through, catching up with each other and really being honest. It was nice, exactly what he needed. Sometimes he wishes he could talk to Harry about that stuff, but usually he’s too busy trying to get Harry to open up instead, rather than focusing on himself and his own problems which seem much more muted and harmless in relation.

 

He needs to call his mum, too. For sure. He knows talking about everything would make him feel better, and besides, he won’t be home for the holidays and he knows that’s almost as hard on his family as it is on him. Almost, because he’s the one here all alone while they’re all together. Marginally, they have it better.

 

Calling her now would disturb Harry, though, so he holds off. Tonight, he promises, though when he really thinks about it all he wants to do when they get back to the hotel is curl up in bed with Harry and fall asleep. Maybe he’ll just call her tomorrow.

 

Their destination this time is somewhere in central Ohio. It doesn’t seem like the most exciting place to be but Harry had been adamant on this path so he doesn’t mind. As long as it means he gets to spend time with Harry and keep an eye on him, making sure he’s safe, Louis will be fine.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The weather gets worse throughout the day and so do the roads. By the time they’re almost to the hotel, Louis can barely see ten feet in front of the car due to all the snow. He’s driving slowly with his hazards on, hoping other drivers are being careful too. Definitely not in the mood to get into an accident today.

 

Harry woke up around lunchtime, demanding they stop for milkshakes. Louis was on board, but afterwards they were both shivering and wondering why milkshakes were a good idea in the middle of December. At least the sugar made them hyper.

 

Now, Harry is practically bouncing in his seat as he tells Louis of an art project where a lady self-portrait photographer posed in positions that made her look like she had committed suicide, and people on the streets would sometimes approach her worriedly. Louis sees the art in it, but it’s also quite a bit morbid, and it worries him that Harry thinks this is so normal.

 

He thinks of all the times Harry has talked about killing himself, and that sends an icy chill down his spine, as if he accidentally left the car window open and a gust of wind blew inside. The thought of Harry even considering something so dark makes his heart sink. He’s worried, and he vows to make sure that’ll never happen, no matter what.

 

“It’s heartwarming,” Harry gushes, talking about the strangers who would kneel beside the artist’s still body and prod at her gently.

 

Louis agrees reluctantly. “I guess, yeah.” He’s still thinking of what he would do if something happened to Harry, but he can’t even begin to picture it.

 

He reaches over the empty space between them and holds his hand out, palm up.

 

Harry’s hand slots perfectly into his own.

 

He feels a little better, now. A little more grounded, knowing and feeling that Harry is safe for now at least.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


At their hotel, Harry has more energy than he has had all day.

 

He doesn’t want to sleep, as it turns out. He wants to swim.

 

“We don’t have bathing suits,” Louis points out, approximately two minutes away from crawling into bed, shower be damned. He feels gross but doesn’t care, hasn’t showered since yesterday, not even after that were sweaty and fucked out from an intense round of sex.

 

Harry shrugs, folding down the elastic band of his joggers and flashing Louis a view of the soft cotton of his boxers. “Essentially the same thing.”

 

Louis is really bad at saying no to him.

 

They end up in the pool, swimming back and forth languidly when they’re not getting into playful fights and splashing each other.

 

Harry used to be shy about physically touch, but not anymore. Not around Louis. He clings to Louis’ back, big hands squeezing his shoulders to hold on, legs wrapped around his lower back, heels digging into his stomach. He orders Louis to swim and Louis does just to humor him, letting Harry ride him like a child. It’s ridiculous, and yet it still warms something in his chest. It’s not often that he gets to witness a carefree Harry.

 

There’s a hot tub to the side of the pool room and it’s blissfully empty. Harry drags him over to it and he goes willingly, sinking into the steaming water with a hiss because it numbs his nerve endings for a minute, before everything dissolves into relaxation and pleasure.

 

Harry sits beside him on perfectly good behavior until he gets the idea that this would be a great place to kiss Louis. It comes out of nowhere, Harry leaning over and attacking his face, not starting slow, just kissing hard. To maintain his balance he presses down with the heel of his palm and it lands high on Louis’ thigh, a warm heat in the hot water.

 

One thing leads to another and before Louis knows it they’re climbing out of the hot tub and racing back up to their hotel room. They take the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator, and drip chlorinated water all the way back. Louis fumbles with the room key with Harry laughing and kissing all over his back, his shoulders, his neck. They still have their agreement, after all.

 

The rule is penetrative sex. They’ve fucked around too much earlier in the week, and now they’d be breaking their own rules if they only went for something easy like a blowjob or a handjob. Louis feels bad, thinking Harry must be pretty sore after so many days of having something shoved up his ass. But this is his idea, and he seems to have no qualms.

 

Still, Louis goes gentle. Much softer than last night. Slower, too. Not slowly. Of course, but slower than the rapid, desperate pace of last night. Today, the name of the game is moderation.

 

He opens him up thoroughly with his fingers, set on not causing Harry any unnecessary pain today. Harry is impatient and telling him to go harder but he ignores his pleas, pumping his fingers in and out at a methodical pace.

 

“Patience, baby,” Louis chastises, going a little slower just to spite him. If Harry was Louis’ boyfriend, and they had an agreement like this, he might try to teach Harry a lesson. The fun way, of course, through edging.

 

They’re not boyfriends though so Louis feels it isn’t really his place to try to alter Harry’s habits. Instead, he tries not to think too hard about really being in a relationship with Harry, having him for good. He focuses on the warm heat encompassing his fingers and then that same warm heat that smothers his dick a few moments later, once he’s open enough.

 

“So fucking big,” Harry murmurs reverently, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure as Louis finds a steady rhythm and maintains it easily, hazy ecstasy coiling in his veins. “I can feel you everywhere… So good…”

 

“I’m glad, darling,” Louis sighs, kissing him sweetly. He wants to make Harry feel good, always.

 

They both come, and then take a nap together, which turns into just falling asleep for the night.

  
Louis wakes at four in the morning, dreadfully soft and still stuffed inside Harry. He pulls out, wincing, unable to believe they’ve stayed in the exact same position for ten hours. No doubt, they were exhausted.

  
He cleans up Harry’s sleeping self, wiping him down with a warm washcloth, careful not to wake him. He didn’t complain at all about being sore but Louis could see it when he pressed inside and Harry scrunched up his nose like it hurt a lot. Any sane person would maybe give up sex for a day, or make an exception to the agreement that says it’s okay to skip a day if his hole is too used and sensitive, but not Harry.

 

So Louis takes care of him like he always does, wrapping him in a blanket when he leaves the bed to take a shower. Twenty minutes later he crawls back in bed beside Harry, wrapping his arms around him protectively.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The next day, on his birthday, he wakes up to burning heat sweltering in his core.

 

 _What?_ he thinks, and then says it out loud too, sleepy and muffled by the fact that this early in the morning he doesn’t exactly have control of his muscles. He opens his eyes, the world blurry and focusing slowly. The first thing he sees is Harry sitting on top of him.

 

He’s fumbling with something in his hands, very intent on whatever it is. Sliding it onto Louis’ hardness. A condom. He sits back on Louis’ thighs, giving him a cordial and innocent, “Good morning, Daddy.”

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Louis groans, and it sounds slow and groggy because that’s exactly what he is right now, slow and groggy in the morning just moments after opening his eyes. Harry is stroking him softly and it makes his head spin. The world feels as though it’s careening dangerously off the edge of something big.

 

“Giving you your birthday present,” Harry tells him. Sometimes he speaks like this and makes himself sound younger. It’s kind of freaky, kind of wrong.

 

“What the hell,” Louis groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. Right now, he just can’t handle the sight of Harry on him. It’s just too much, this early in the morning. “What time is it?”

 

“Why does it matter, Daddy? Don’t worry about it. This is just about you, and me. About us. Nothing else.”

 

Louis can’t handle the sight of him and he also can’t handle the sound of him either, calling him Daddy. He turns his head to the side and sees the hotel alarm clock glowing with green numbers. 7:27 AM. Harry really woke him up at 7:27 AM just to ride him. Insane.

 

The thing is, he doesn’t ask, _Is this alright? Are you okay with this?_ No, he doesn’t say a thing, just lines Louis’ dick up at his entrance and sinks down slowly, moaning all the while. Isn’t that wrong? Where is the consent?

 

Not that he doesn’t want this, but it concerns Louis, this lack of a mutual decision between the two of them to have sex. It’s clear Harry doesn’t see any merit to that, or maybe he just doesn’t know it’s the standard between two people who are decidedly not in a relationship.

 

Oh well. They’ll have to talk about it later, but not now, not when Harry is pausing halfway down and setting his palms on Louis’ stomach to support himself as he hovers over his hips. Not now, when he curls his fingers, nails digging in a little to Louis’ skin and leaving crescent moon impressions. Not now, when he’s breathing heavily and biting his lips and letting his hair fall all over his face, making him look wild and beautiful.

 

He doesn’t understand Harry, not at all. No way in hell. Because he’s so quiet and tentative about all that he does. Always worrying and apologizing, afraid he’ll be yelled at due to the slightest thing, mistake or no mistake. _That_ makes sense, because he grew up in an extremely volatile environment with parents who chastised him and punished him for doing nothing at all. Now, he’s learned to expect it. What doesn’t make sense are moments like these, when he demands things or even just takes them without asking.

 

Maybe other people have done this with him before, and that’s why he thinks it’s okay. Clearly he likes rough sex, even when it hurts a lot, and Louis doesn’t think that’s something exactly natural in human nature. He could’ve been conditioned into enjoying it, or at least thinking he enjoys it, and that’s why he craves it so much. Because people like Roman trained him to crave it.

 

Rejecting Harry now would probably cause him more harm than good. So he doesn’t. Instead, he sets his hands heavy on Harry’s hips, keeping him steady. Supporting him.

 

“You’re too good for me, baby,” Louis sighs, because it’s easy to fall into it, it’s easy to pretend they’re in a relationship or in love even and his long term boyfriend is waking him up with reverent birthday sex like a present. It’s easy to pretend because Louis can see this future for them, even if Harry can’t. Even if Harry hasn’t thought of it at all.

 

“Wanna be good for you,” Harry mumbles, lowering his eyes shyly. He sinks down the rest of the way and moves to slide up again. Louis stops him.

 

“Stay here for a second. Just kiss me.”

 

Harry obliges, follows orders, whatever he does. Leaning forward, sliding his hands up Louis’ bed, touching everywhere before settling on his neck. He relaxes a little, with Louis still inside him, and lets Louis licks into his mouth too. It should be gross because Louis just woke up and neither one of them has brushed their teeth yet, but instead it’s just warm and sweet and soft.

 

They kiss for a while but not long enough for the burning heat to quell. It’s a joint agreement to begin moving about ten minutes later, when neither can stand it anymore. Harry lifts up, almost pulling himself all the way off before he lowers himself down again and repeats the process, finding a rhythm that has them both groaning.

 

Unlike last time, they don’t have to make many efforts to keep quiet. They moan freely, creating their own symphony of sleep-soft sounds of pleasure and skin pressing against skin.

 

Harry bounces up and down, thighs shaking, as Louis enjoys the view in front of him. It is a gift, definitely, a birthday present he’ll never forget. A naked, gorgeous, godly Harry Styles sitting on his cock, taking him well. In praise and compliment, he runs his hands up and down Harry’s thighs, stroking them gently. When he gets tired, Louis’ll jump in and thrust upwards to help him out, but for now he just lies back and enjoys the view, unable to help the smirk that overtakes his face.

 

“So- So good, Daddy,” he hiccups, perhaps on the verge of tears. “Feel so good…”

 

“You too, baby. Love how you feel. Love how you take me. So sexy and beautiful.”

 

Dangerously close to _love you,_ of course.

 

A few shiny tears slip out and slide down his cheeks, glistening in the early morning light. It’s the dead of winter and the sun is hardly up yet. The longest day of the year was three days ago. It’s not even eight o’clock yet and Harry is bathed in the golden beams of light sneaking in from the window, looking absolutely angelic.

 

Louis wants to ask why he’s crying but he doesn’t. What would Harry say, anyways? That he’s in pain and afraid and doesn’t want to be here right now but doesn’t know how to get out of a situation he himself created? That he’s overcome with emotion and just so happy or sad or whatever it might be, whatever it is that fills his eyes with tears?

 

He just stays still and lets Harry set the pace, lets Harry arch his back and lean his head towards the ceiling to moan, exposing the long column of his beautiful neck. His dick is hard and aching, slapping against his tummy with every bounce on Louis’ cock, leaking precome that drips down it, making it wet. Louis almost feels bad, seeing how angry red the tip is, how painful it must be to not have a hand around it.

 

Still, he doesn’t reach out and touch just yet. He watches as Harry approaches his own orgasm, watches the beautiful lines of his body and the subtle curve of his waist, watches as his chest heaves and his thighs tremble and his curls flutter in the wind of every downward motion. He watches as Harry cries and cries and cries. It must be in pleasure because his movements are more frantic and so are his sounds, his little moans which sound like _ah ah ah_ ’s every time he’s fully seated, every time Louis is as deep in him as he possibly can be, pressing hard against his prostate, making his hips stutter, making his entire body shake.

 

He’s getting tired. Louis feels bad. He holds his hands out in the space between them and waits until Harry grasps them, entangling their fingers and putting his weight and trust in Louis’ hands, literally. It’s easier this way for him, with something to rest on and rely on. Louis is glad to be that for him, that steadiness, that constant.

 

“Please, please, I need to come…”

 

So he’s waiting for permission, then. Louis never told him to do that but he doesn’t mind, if it’s something that Harry wants then so what? He’ll oblige him. Of course he will. At this point, there’s not much he _wouldn’t_ do for Harry.

 

“Of course, baby, go ahead.”

 

It’s incredible, really, that Harry has enough discipline and enough control over himself to somehow stave off his orgasm until Louis gives him the okay to do so. He comes almost immediately after Louis tells him he can, just a few more bounces up and down before his hips stutter and he gives up completely, tiring out, the only thing holding him up being his hands entangled in Louis’.

 

Come gets everywhere, on his stomach and chest, on his thighs, all over Louis, on the bed too. His arms turn weak like jelly and he can’t hold himself up anymore so Louis coaxes him down over his messy chest, wrapping his own arms around Harry and stroking his back, comforting him through the endings of his orgasm.

 

Still chasing his own, he thrusts his hips up slowly, holding Harry close to him. Everything is warm, soft, and lovely. Harry’s face is buried in his neck, and his hair is everywhere. Louis is lost in him, in his scent most specifically, in the sweetness of his skin, the fragrance that’s a cross between cigarettes and roses. He doesn’t even fucking smoke.

 

“Happy birthday, Daddy,” Harry whispers in his ear. Louis isn’t sure, it might be the deepness of his voice, or the way his breath tickles Louis’ neck, or how he calls him Daddy while simultaneously wishing him a happy birthday, but it doesn’t matter, because he comes right like that, buried deep in Harry who’s collapsed on top of him, fucked out and spent.

 

There’s warm heat and bright white stars. Everything becomes muffled and the only thing that matters is Harry. Ecstasy courses through his veins, or at least that’s what it feels like, all the endorphins sending pleasure through him in heavy doses.

 

He clings onto Harry even long after it passes, after his breathing has returned to normal and his sight is more than just white light.

 

“You’re really good at that,” Louis tells him, kissing the side of his head because he can’t help himself. Harry only hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything, so Louis adds, “I have no idea how the hell you can do that so easily, though. Aren’t you sore?”

 

“A little,” Harry whispers, casual, like he didn’t just have an entire week of really rough sex. “But it’s okay, I don’t mind it.”

 

“You’re amazing. And you know it’s okay to tell me you’d rather skip it for a day, alright? You know that’s okay, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course… You take care of me so well.”

 

That makes Louis feel good, at least. The fact that Harry thinks he takes care of him well. It’s nice, because that’s all he really wants. To make sure Harry is okay, to make sure he’s safe.

 

“Are you happy, though? Like, now that you’re getting the regular sex you wanted and everything?”

 

“Yes,” Harry sighs, sounding satisfied and happy, his body completely lax on Louis’. “Yes, thank you.”

 

They lie together like this for a while, their heartbeats syncing up eventually until there’s just one steady thud between the two of them. Once Louis notices, he can’t stop noticing, and it’s something he’s never experienced before. Harry is still and quiet and he’s wondering if he’s thinking the same thing, or maybe not, maybe he’s not as crazy as Louis.

 

Eventually, the stickiness of their sweat and come makes itself known and Louis can’t really ignore it anymore, so he decides to get up. This involves slipping his soft dick out of Harry’s sore, aching hole, which causes him to whine into Louis’ neck in protest.

 

“Wait, where’re you going?”

 

“Gotta shower, honey.”

 

His grip is like a vice on Louis’ arm, fingernails digging in. “Don’t leave me,” he whimpers, and his voice is so quiet and broken it conveys more than just a man reluctant to see his lover go. “Please,” he tacks onto the end, voice small, back to his usual tendency of being afraid to ask for what he wants, as if he’ll be punished any minute now.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“You left me last time and I… It was really scary, I don’t like to be alone.”

 

Does that explain why Harry looked like shit yesterday morning, so downtrodden and demoralized, everything about him reeking exhaustion? Because Louis fucked him hard the night before and left without so much as a kiss on the cheek? Because he had no one to hold him during the nightmares, no one to scare away the monsters, no one to wipe away his tears?

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry adds quietly when he fails to respond.

 

That snaps him out of the stupor he was stuck in. “Shit, baby, _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t know that was so bad for you. I won’t do it again, okay Harry? I promise.”

 

He smiles a little at him, the corners of his lips turning up sleepily from where he’s turned over on the bed, looking like an angelic mess with come everywhere and his hair messy from sex but still so beautiful. “Thank you, Daddy.”

 

Louis sighs, a little exasperated and a lot endeared. What the fuck is he going to do with him? Harry is too sweet for his own good. Anyone would be lucky to have him and yet here he is, with Louis. Sometimes he feels like he won the lottery, even though he knows he won’t have Harry forever. A little while is enough for him, at least it’ll have to be enough. He won’t have a choice.

 

“Well I really wanna shower, darling. Care to join me?”

 

“Will you carry me?”

 

Louis rolls his eyes fondly but doesn’t protest. He’s carried Harry before, so he knows it’s possible, and not the most difficult thing in the world. Harry falls pliant, making it easier for Louis to lift him, and he wraps his legs around Louis’ waist, winding his arms around his neck to keep himself from falling. Louis supports him with his hands holding the backs of his thighs, almost to his bare ass but not quite. He waddles through the hotel room to the bathroom and only deposits Harry to the ground once the water has warmed up and they’re already in the shower.

 

Harry clings to him still, arms around his neck and face buried in it too, right below Louis’ ear as he nuzzles against him, the warm water rushing around them.

 

“Thank you, Lou. Thank you for coming with me.”

 

Louis knows he’s not just talking about showering together, he’s talking about this entire trip and even just how Louis offered to go with him, just a few weeks ago. And it’s true, Louis can hardly imagine Harry going alone, attending the funeral alone, and staying with his parents alone. He’s glad to have been able to be here for Harry.

 

Louis squeezes him in a tight, comforting hug before getting to work washing Harry’s hair with the hotel shampoo which is green-tea scented.

 

“Of course, Harry. No problem.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


After their shower together, they wrap up in towels and debate slipping back into bed for a quick nap but decide against it due to how messy the sheets are.

 

As they leave the hotel after gathering their things, Louis vaguely wonders if they’ll be billed for ruining the sheets. He leaves the cleaning crew a generous tip with a note on the bed using hotel stationary that says _Sorry! (: x_

 

The roads are pretty clear today despite how much it snowed yesterday, and they drive through Ohio, passing corn fields and forests and not much else. Harry drives the first leg and they both scream along to the radio, listening to a shit ton of holiday music that has them excited for Christmas even though they won’t really be celebrating it this year.

 

They switch off after three hours, parked at a rest stop when Louis rounds the car outside and Harry climbs over the center console to get himself to the passenger’s seat. The open door brings in a lot of freezing cold air and Louis closes it quickly, restarting the car and turning the heat on full blast.

 

“So, um, Lou…”

 

“Yes, pet? Spit it out.”

 

“It’s about me moving out.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Well, I don’t really know what to do.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“What?”

 

Louis turns the radio down but keeps his gaze straight ahead on the highway in front of him, lined with trees covered in snow. “I need to know what you’re thinking, H. What you want to do and everything so then we can discuss and come up with a plan. I have some ideas but I need to know what you want, first.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“Go ahead, then.”

 

“Well, I don’t really… I mean, what if I don’t know what I want? Or what if it’s not possible?”

 

“Tell me what you would do if nothing was holding you back, then.”

 

“I would stay with you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“What do you mean ‘really’? I like living with you.”

 

Louis smiles a little, feeling relieved but still he presses, “Why?”

 

Harry’s quiet for a long moment. “Because we’re friends, and you’re very nice to me. You take care of me. I can’t even remember what I did when I lived alone, without you.”

 

See, the thing is, Louis could totally make a joke right now about finally reaching friend status with Harry after living with him for months, or something to that effect. But he doesn’t. What he said is really genuine and it doesn’t seem right to make light of it.

 

“Me too, H. I don’t know what I did without you.”

 

“I don’t want to move,” Harry says, very quietly. “But I have to. They’ll stop paying for school if I don’t, and there’s no way… I just can’t do that.”

 

“I get it, Harry, I really do. It’s alright.”

  
“So I have to find a new place and move out. But I’m worried- I’m worried I won’t see you very often. I don’t want that to happen.”

 

He’s looking for reassurance, then. Louis can give him that. No problem.  “Whatever place you pick, it can’t be that far from where we’re living now, you know? Like you’ll still be near campus, I’m assuming. Whenever you want me to come over just call me and I’ll be there.”

 

“Really?”

 

“What do you mean, ‘really’?” Louis jokes, repeating what Harry said earlier. “No but seriously, if that’s something you want, we can make it happen.”

 

“Are you sure? I mean, I know how busy you get-“

 

“We’ll both be busy, H, but like, of course. We’ll find the time somehow. Even if it’s just you coming over to take a nap on the couch with Cliff or something.”

 

“You’d want that?”

 

“Of course. You’re always welcome to come over, stay over, whatever. Honestly, you can keep the extra key, I don’t mind.” He thinks about it for a moment, eyes still on the road, but in his peripheral vision he can tell Harry is smiling. He just knows. “Which, now that I think about it,” he adds, “if you decide to do that, it’ll pretty much just be like you still live with me, so. That’s not a bad thing. You’ll just have a new place to sleep at night, if that’s what you want.”

 

“But what am I going to do without you to wake me up from my nightmares?” His tone is jovial and there’s laughter in his voice, despite the heavy, serious topic. It makes Louis smile a little too.

 

“What will _you_ do? What will _I_ do?”

 

“Without all of my glorious culinary skills? Starve, probably.”

 

“Wow, okay, rude.”

 

They’re both laughing though, and for once everything feels alright.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Their stop that night is in Snowshoe, Pennsylvania, a town right off the highway and so small it hardly even exists, swathed in acres of forestland. The only cars they pass on the roads are pickup trucks with racks of shotguns on the back windows, meant for hunting.

 

Needless to say, they’re hopelessly out of place.

 

It’s okay, though, because when they check in at the hotel everyone that greets them cheerfully and wishes them an enjoyable stay. They’re just setting their bags down in their room when Harry suggests they go out to dinner.

 

“Really? Why?”

 

“For your birthday,” Harry explains, looking a little shy. “We should do something nice, to celebrate.”

 

“Oh,” Louis breathes, blinking at Harry. He hadn’t expected that. “Well…”

 

“Please, I want to do something special for you.”

 

Louis laughs, unable to contain it. “You already did.”

 

The warm pink blush that coats Harry’s cheeks is much more characteristic of the shy person he used to be around Louis, before they really got to know each other. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t really mean it, eyes flitting away to avoid Louis’ in embarrassment.

 

Deciding to spare him, Louis moves past the topic without dwelling too much, although it does conjure up some pretty nice images in his mind, of Harry on top of him this morning, arching his back and moaning loudly. “Yeah, sure, H, we can go out to dinner. Where do you wanna go?”

 

As it turns out, while Louis was driving earlier in the day, Harry did some searching on his phone and found a nice restaurant in Snowshoe, Pennsylvania, already planning ahead for this celebratory dinner. He made reservations and everything. He says it isn’t the nicest place but there weren’t too many options near their current location, so. Louis smiles gently and assures him it’ll be lovely no matter what.

 

It’s Harry’s idea to get dressed up, so that’s what they do. Harry spends his time in the bathroom doing his hair, while Louis digs through his suitcase in search of something nice to wear. He ends up having to settle on his nicest pair of skinny jeans and a soft bluish lavender sweater, but it doesn’t look too bad.

 

He sits on the bed and responds to the text messages piling up on his phone as he waits for Harry to come out from the bathroom. When he does, his breath is momentarily knocked from his lungs as he struggles to breathe. It’s embarrassing, but hopefully not noticeable, as he recovers quickly and whistles lowly and appreciatively as a joke at the sight of Harry standing there, even more beautiful than usual.

 

“Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

 

Harry blushes again and this time he shies away from it even more, covering his cheeks with his hands and turning away bashfully. “It’s too much, I’m going to change,” he mumbles, already shuffling back into the bathroom, but Louis is there in a moment to stop him.

 

“No, no, you look absolutely amazing, please don’t change. I love this,” he tells him delicately, letting his fingers fall to the soft, silky fabric of Harry’s blouse. It’s pale petal pink and shimmery like champagne in the light, with tiny sparkles that catch even the smallest bit of illumination and glimmer accordingly.

 

Pink is a beautiful color on him because it softens his hard edges, smoothing the furrow in his brow and the crinkle in his nose, the sharp jut of his jaw. It makes him look innocent, and in some ways he always does but Louis knows he isn’t quite that, to no fault of his own, really. Harry is someone who swears like a sailor when he’s angry or upset, wears lingerie to seduce people, and manipulates roommates into strange sexual agreements. It’s best for Louis to remember this.

 

Still, he looks breathtaking like this, soft and vulnerable in the best way. The vulnerability is intentional perhaps, which takes away the risk of it all, but Louis doesn’t mind. Especially when he looks a little closer and realizes Harry is wearing a bit of makeup too, with shimmery eye shadow and pink-tinted lip gloss. Mascara, too, and highlighter on his cheekbones.

 

“Pretty, pretty,” he muses again, kind of lost in it all but trying not to drown. What were they doing, before Harry decided to walk out of the bathroom looking like a strange and beautiful androgynous angel? Oh, right. Dinner. “Ready to go, babe?”

 

“What, not ‘kiddo’ today?”

 

“Nah, not today,” Louis mutters, opening the door and shoving Harry outside to the hallway of the hotel. He grabs his wallet and the key to get back into the room before letting it close. “Not when you look this hot.”

 

“So every time you’ve called me kiddo, you’ve found me unattractive?”

 

Louis shakes his head, because Harry is all wrong. “No, I only call you kiddo when you’re acting cute.”

 

“I guess that makes sense.”

 

“Don’t make it weird.”

 

“You’re the one who’s calling the person you’ve been fucking ‘kiddo.’”

 

“I repeat: don’t make it weird.”

 

“Just pointing it out.”

 

“Are you forgetting that you call me ‘Daddy’ during sex?”

 

Harry just laughs, not having the decency to blush or even pretend to be embarrassed.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


They eat dinner at a family-owned Italian restaurant that has the most intense small-town feel Louis has ever experienced.

 

It’s decorated for the Christmas holiday, with a real tree in the corner that has everything smelling like pine. It isn’t particularly unpleasant, but rather unexpected. There are cartoon decals of Santa Claus on the windows and stringed lights everywhere. The server is a sixteen year old girl who seems to have grown up in Snowshoe and been here since birth. She’s chewing bubble gum and makes no attempt to hide it when she asks for their orders.

 

They end up eating pasta, and tons of it. Harry and Louis are in a passionate conversation about the beauties of autumn in the midwest when a group of middle-aged ladies at a neighboring table hop into the discussion to add their two cents. They’re very sweet and hilarious, actually, sending Louis into fitfulls of giggles multiple times.

 

Louis can tell she’s going to say it before she really says it, asking the question he knows they’ve all been wondering for a while. Hell, even Louis has been wondering the same thing.

 

“Is this a date? Are you two here on a date?”

 

He can’t help the way his eyes widen and he looks across the table, expecting to meet Harry’s equally torn expression. However, Harry isn’t looking at Louis. He’s blushing, but very decidedly saying, “Yes,” before Louis can get a word in.

 

And thank god, because the word “No” was on the tip of Louis’ tongue. Imagine if he had said “No” at the same time Harry said “Yes.” What a disaster that would be.

 

The ladies coo over them which is a much nicer alternative to persecuting them for their gayness, and it kind of warms something in Louis’ cynical heart. Harry is just as moved by it, because he keeps looking over at Louis and catching his gaze, eyes glistening with tears.

 

The thing is, it takes Louis’ breath away.

 

If there’s anyone on earth right now who deserves soft, subtle kindness at all times, it’s Harry. He has been through so much torture, has experienced so much hatred. Kindness and warmth won’t make up for the abstructions of his parents, but it might help him learn to grow from the memories rather than cower in their wake.

 

 _When I remember my childhood,_ Harry had said two days ago in the car, when their conversation had turned serious, _my memories are in third person, like I’m detached from myself and watching from above._

 

 _Like you’re in a movie?_ Louis had asked.

 

Harry had nodded, agreeing. _It’s so much easier to remember it like that, rather than to feel everything happen to me all over again. I just… It makes it harder to tell if it’s even real, if any of that ever really happened to me._

 

Whenever Louis doesn’t know how to respond, he grabs Harry’s hand and squeezes it softly, hoping Harry can feel all of Louis’ emotions, even the ones he doesn’t know how to say quite yet. The sadness and sorrow but also the care he feels for Harry, the love that burns deep in his heart, the ardent need to protect him at any given moment, protect him even from the memories in his head, the nightmares that plague his sleep.

 

Seeing Harry now, surrounded by cheesy holiday decorations, astounded that strangers may actually be supportive of him for once… It’s a lot. It makes Louis ache. It makes Louis want to swathe him up in a big warm blanket and never let him leave, so he can always make sure he’s safe and protected from the horrors of humanity.

 

It isn’t exactly possible but he’s still trying his hardest.

 

Louis offers to be the designated driver, giving Harry the opportunity to drink as much wine as his heart desires. They share a bottle but Louis only has a glass and a half. By the time they’re ready to leave, the bottle is empty and Harry is more than a little bit buzzed.

 

Drunk Harry is always an interesting concept because his mood before he starts drinking determines his mood after he starts drinking. Sadness turns to depression, fear turns to anxiety, and so on.

 

Luckily, tonight he is in a good mood before he even begins going at the wine. The alcohol puts him in an even better mood. Albeit clingy, but better. By the time they’re ready to leave, as the wine is gone and there’s no reason to stay anymore, Harry is giggling wildly and demanding Louis shower him with affection.

 

“Calm down, sheesh,” Louis remarks as they leave the restaurant, the tipsy ladies laughing at the way Harry stumbles and Louis catches him before he brains himself on the window, or perhaps crashes through the glass. With his arm around him now, there’s no escaping Harry as he clings to him and nuzzles his face into his neck, somehow still managing to blabber on about his deep, desperate love for Stevie Nicks.

 

“She’d love you,” Louis tells him, hauling Harry through the snow, towards the car. As he says this he realizes it isn’t just placation, it’s the truth. Everyone would love Harry, if they gave him a chance. If they saw who he really is, rather than just making stupidly fallacious assumptions about him.

 

“I’m sad,” Harry whimpers suddenly, refusing to let go even when Louis gets the passenger’s door open and is actively trying to sit him down on the seat. His arms wind around Louis’ neck, his hot, humid breath in his face and smelling sweet, intoxicating.

 

“What is it, babe?”

 

The pout falls away in an instant and is replaced by a soft, shy smile. If his cheeks weren’t already rosy from the cold and the alcohol, he would probably be blushing. He giggles, and dips his chin, pressing his face into Louis’ neck, nosing along the skin chilled by the snow but feeling hot under the attention. “I like when you call me that,” he admits bashfully.

 

“What, you mean ‘babe’?” Louis rolls his eyes fondly, wondering what the hell he’s going to do with Harry fucking Styles. He sets his hands on his soft hips— _unfairly_ soft hips, for someone who is so athletic—and lifts him up as best as he can, setting him inside the car.

 

Harry goes mostly willingly, cramming his long giraffe legs in the limited space and struggling minimally when Louis reaches over his tummy to buckle his seatbelt. He laughs, as if there’s anything actually comical happening, and captures Louis’ hands in his own, keeping them trapped against his chest.

 

Looking right into his eyes, he declares:

 

“I love you.”

 

And just like that, the world stops.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Admittedly, Louis doesn’t know much about love.

 

That sounds kind of bad, but to be fair, he hasn’t exactly had enough relationships to explore the concept of love very thoroughly. Affection, adoration, devotion… Shallow connections and hookups aren’t very conducive to these emotions.

 

The only time he has ever said “I love you” to someone that isn’t his mother, or his nan, or his sisters, is during sex. Quite fitting, isn’t it? The man branded as a _slut_ and a _whore,_ has never confessed his love in a non-explicit setting. It makes sense. The point is, saying _I love you_ while falling over the crest of one’s orgasm is hardly a real declaration of love. It’s safe to say Louis doesn’t know anything about _real_ love.

 

He does know one truth, though, and that truth is this:

 

Oftentimes, love ends.

 

Mostly, it isn’t much of a challenge to to determine when it ends. Coldness, apathy, contempt, and on and on are all signs of love ending. It’s sad, but the honest truth. Not everything is bulletproof, not everything is eternal.

 

A more difficult question for consideration:

 

When does love begin?

 

And even more burdensome:

 

How can one tell if it’s even real?

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


This isn’t real. Harry is drunk.

 

Louis sighs, pulling his hands away and glaring at him. He has to put his foot down somewhere, sometime. He has to be stern with Harry when he pulls shit like this. “Don’t say that.”

 

He’s pouting like a child. A drunk, twenty-something child. “Why?”

 

“‘Cause you’re not supposed to say that if you don’t mean it.”

 

The logic seems lost on intoxicated Harry. He stares at Louis in confusion. Louis makes sure Harry’s limbs are out of the way before he shuts the door hard, the sound of its slam ringing through the air.

 

It’s absolutely freezing outside, a December evening in the middle of fucking Showshoe, Pennsylvania of all places where Harry first tells Louis he loves him. Absolutely fucking insane. Louis’ mind is reeling with it. He stares out at the darkness, at the white snow that fades to nothing but an empty void of heartland, just farms and forests and vacant shadows.

 

Louis’ heart is warm and full but he knows Harry’s heart is just as desolate as the scenery around them. There is no room for him to love anyone else, before he loves himself, and that’s- That’s… No. That won’t be happening any time soon, not at the pace he’s progressing right now, which is to say, very slowly.

 

With a bit too much force, he swings the door open and throws himself inside haphazardly, turning the keys to get the car started before he even closes the door. Harry is startled by the loud sound but for once Louis doesn’t care enough to be as cautious and tentative as he always is, putting Harry’s thoughts and feelings above his own at all times. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? He’s not sure how long he can keep this up.

 

“I love you,” Harry declares again, less than a minute later when they’re pulling out onto the main road, the tires slipping a little on the icy, snow-covered pavement. “Don’t you believe me?”

 

Clenching the steering wheel a little tighter, his fingers start to go numb from the tension and the cold. “Okay honey, I believe you,” he lies. It pains him to say it but he has to, if he doesn’t want to really upset Harry.

 

Harry sighs in exaggerated relief and grins at him so widely, Louis fears his face with crack into pieces. He’s glowing, now, from the alcohol and the love declaration and the fact that Louis lied to say he believes him. Warmly, he says, “Thank you.” And then, “Do you love me?’

 

Louis desperately wants to keep his eyes on the road, on the snow and ice and blackness that encompasses all. His hands would be trembling if only they weren’t clenched so tightly on the steering wheel in a death grip, like if he loosens his touch even a little bit the entire world will fall to pieces. Instead of looking straight ahead he chances a glance toward Harry and sees him sitting there, drunk and beautiful and worried, like he’s thinking Louis is going to say no. _No, I don’t love you._

 

The thing about Harry is that even through the disabilities caused by the trauma he has faced for years, he is the most amazing, most beautiful person in the world. That’s not easy to come by. There’s just this light to him, this warmth that Louis feels whenever he sees Harry, and yeah, it definitely feels a lot like that four letter word that begins with L and ends with E.

 

Louis tries to determine the moment when he really fell in love with Harry, but it’s difficult to pinpoint. Was it this morning, when he woke up to birthday sex and Harry bouncing on top of him, arching his back and exposing the column of his throat? Or was it months ago, when Louis came home from class and found him lying sprawled out on the floor, letting Clifford smother him in kisses?

 

Or maybe sometime in between, during all the late nights they spent together, curled up in bed and trying to fend away the nightmares. Or the mornings when Harry would emerge from his room, sleep-rumpled and covered in paint and graphite from a night of creating art. Perhaps he fell in love during all those evenings they spent next to each other on the couch, completing coursework or watching TV or taking a nap. Or the times when he would return from classes to find Harry in the kitchen, cooking dinner and humming whatever song was in his head that night.

 

It doesn’t matter when he fell in love. All that matters is that Louis _did_ fall in love, somewhere along the line. And now he loves Harry fucking Styles and there’s nothing he can do about it.

 

Harry Styles, who draws fish and sharks and mermaids when he’s bored, on whatever surface he can find. Harry Styles, who is vegetarian by choice because he can’t stand the thought of animals being raised only to die by butcher. Harry Styles, who goes for eight-mile runs in the mornings, who fidgets when he’s nervous, who trusts Louis to take care of him and hold him close to ground him when he dissociates. Harry Styles, who is always a warm presence in Louis’ life, literally and figuratively, and will hug Louis when he’s cold, or when he’s sad, without even having to ask.

 

Louis sighs. He knows he shouldn’t love Harry, that Harry is too broken to be loved, that he shouldn’t expect anything out of this love anyways because there’s no chance Harry will ever be able to give him what he needs. That’s what the cynic would say, at least.

 

Louis may be cynical about some things, but he sure as hell isn’t a cynic about love. Perhaps his best attribute and his biggest downfall is that he’s a hopeless romantic through and through.

 

It would be cruel for him to say he doesn’t love Harry, when Harry is drunk and emotional and so, so vulnerable. But to say it, and actually mean it… It’s dangerous, and irresponsible. But he can’t help it.

 

Harry is becoming worried and antsy with the lack of response and Louis feels bad about it, so he reaches over and grabs his hand like they’ve done so often on this road trip. So much has changed, since they left from New York only a few days ago. It feels as though the world has been tilted differently on its axis, and everything is different.

 

Louis squeezes his hand. “Of course, Harry. Of course I love you.”

 

It both pains him to say it and feels like a relief, just to get it off his chest. The hopeful part of himself is praying that one day he’ll get to say those three words to a sober, coherent Harry, but he isn’t holding his breath.

 

For god’s sake, Harry was proclaiming his love for Roman just two weeks ago. His concept of love is severely contorted and malformed.  It’s best for Louis to remember that.

 

When he looks back over again he finds Harry crying. Tears stream down his face like they have so many times before, and he sniffles, wiping his nose. It’s cuter than it should be.

 

“Alright?” Louis asks, worried again.

 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, clinging to Louis’ hand like a lifeline. “Yeah… Yes. I just- I just really love you.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Back at the hotel, Harry strips out of his clothes to reveal coral pink lingerie.

 

He pulls on thigh-high socks too, and dances drunkenly in front of the mirror for a while, as Louis gets ready for bed. There’s certainly something about alcohol that makes him want to dress like this, because he’s done it before, on the night he first said to Louis, _Daddy hurts me._ It feels like a far off, distant memory.

 

Eventually Louis finishes his bedtime routine, and lounges back on the mattress, propped up on his elbows, just watching Harry dance. It’s silly, the way he flails his limbs, but there’s something artistic about the way he sways his hips so smoothly.

 

“What’re you singing, H?”

 

“Shania Twain,” he answers, raising his arms in the air and letting them glide back and forth.

 

Now that he mentions it, Louis can recognize the song in his broken, drunken lyrics. The song says something about Harry’s ideals and feelings towards love, doesn’t it? That young, starry-eyed thought that it can somehow last forever…

 

A twinge hits Louis when he remembers this is their last night in a hotel room together. Tomorrow, on Christmas Day, they’ll drive back to their apartment. And then Harry will begin his search for a new place to stay.

 

“C’m’ere, honey, aren’t you cold?”

 

“I think you mean _you’re_ cold,” Harry sasses, spinning around and clambering onto the bed anyways. “You’re always cold. And you need me to warm you up.”

 

Louis smiles teasingly, but doesn’t say anything because Harry is right. He lets Harry crawl up towards him and clumsily slip beneath the covers. Harry turns on his side and pulls Louis into him so they’re spooning, Harry’s arms wrapping around his middle, legs entangling. Usually it’s the other way around, with Louis as the big spoon, the comforter, the protector, but today it’s different and it feels nice, especially when he’s encompassed by the soft warmth of Harry’s bare skin.

 

“Thank you for everything today.”

 

“Of course, Lou. Happy birthday.”

 

“Thanks,” Louis whispers, pulling Harry’s arm closer to his chest and clinging to it, smiling to himself. In the morning, they’ll wake up and Harry will be sober and not love him anymore, but that’s alright, because for now they have this moment, and it isn’t much, but it’s enough.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The next morning, they grab breakfast at the hotel and then pack up their belongings into the car, before it’s even eight o’clock. Despite Louis fearing he has a hangover, Harry offers to drive.

 

It isn’t awkward but it should be. Louis wonders how much he remembers from last night, if he remembers anything at all. What would they do then, if Harry remembered that Louis, who was sober, told him he loves him?

 

Louis doesn’t want to ask what he remembers. He curls up in the passenger’s seat and looks out the window. They’re listening to Fleetwood Mac. Harry keeps looking over at him and biting his lip.

 

This morning, they woke up entangled in each other. When Harry got out of bed he looked down at himself and blushed, seeing the lingerie and the thigh-highs. Neither of them said anything about it as they got dressed and quietly packed their things.

 

Now, in the car, it feels more than a bit awkward.

 

Eventually, “Hey Louis?”

 

“Yeah, H?”

 

“Did I, um, did I say something last night?”

 

“Uhh… What do you mean?”

 

“Like, did I, um, maybe like, declare something to you last night? Something that’s kind of a big deal?”

 

“Oh, uh, yeah, kind of…”

 

“Oh. Um. Okay.”

 

Silence falls, and just like that, they don’t talk about it.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


They exchange Christmas gifts in the living room, as per Louis’ idea.

 

Harry makes mugs of hot chocolate for the both of them, and they sit together on the couch, handing over their presents shyly. The TV is on, playing a holiday movie, but the volume is turned so low, it’s just a hum in the background.

 

“Open yours first,” Louis tells him.

 

“Alright.” Harry carefully pulls the layers of tissue paper out of the bag, smoothing them out so they don’t make much of a mess. Louis has learned from previous discussion that Harry saves things like wrapping paper and ribbon, in order to reuse it later for another gift. It’s better for the environment, that’s why he does it.

 

If it one someone else, Louis might tease them about it but the way Harry is so careful and earnest makes Louis’ heart ache as he watches with an overly fond smile capturing his face.

 

The awed expression on Harry’s face is worth it, of course, when he pulls out a box of Prisma colored pencils, 150 count.

 

“Holy shit, Lou, is this really..?”

 

Louis bites his bottom lip to keep from grinning like a loon, and waits patiently, not saying anything, letting Harry find out for himself. With reverent fingers, he slides the cover off the box and finds six tins of pencils, organized by color.

 

“Lou you can’t’ve- I mean, they’re so expensive… How?”

 

Louis shrugs. “I’ve been wanting to get them for you for a while.”

 

It’s true, he has been thinking about replacing Harry’s set of colored pencils, because Harry complains about them almost daily. He uses the ones the university offers, which are all so short they’re a challenge to hold, and the lead keeps breaking. He isn’t allowed to take them from the studio since they belong to the university, but Harry doesn’t like to do work in the studio, so he usually ends up just not using colored pencils.

 

“Oh god,” Harry breathes. “These are beautiful, thank you. I can’t even imagine how expensive this must’ve been.”

 

“It’s worth it, though.” _For you,_ he doesn’t say. “There’s something else at the bottom, too. It’s something small but it reminded me of you.”

 

Harry shushes him and digs deep into the bag, pulling out a jewelry box. “Lou…” he breathes out, staring at the unopened box, overcome. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears and it makes Louis feel emotional too.

 

The moment is too soft and sincere for just friends. Of course, they’re not really just friends. They’ve been having sex every day for a week, and just last night they shared half-drunken _I love you’s._

 

Harry opens the velvet box and gasps. “Oh Lou… It’s beautiful.” He wipes away a tear that slips down his cheek and laughs a little, looking over at Louis with adoration in his eyes. “You’re amazing. Will you help me put it on?”

 

“Of course, love,” he smiles encouragingly, taking the necklace from Harry’s fingers. It’s a delicate gold chain with tiny gold stars that dangle from it, and little amethyst gems every so often. Harry turns around and waits patiently, but shivers visibly when Louis softly brushes his hair away from his neck. He takes his time latching the tiny clasp and then rearranging Harry’s hair, smoothing it out so it falls as beautifully as it always does. “Merry Christmas.”

 

When Harry turns back around, his face is blotchy and the tears are falling freely now, languidly wetting his face like a gentle rainstorm during summertime. “It’s amethyst, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “Your birthstone.”

 

Harry collapses forward, wrapping his arms around Louis’ neck and clinging to him. He presses his face into his neck, sighing lightly, humid breath tickling his skin. “Thank you. I don’t deserve any of this.”

 

Saddened, Louis holds him a little tighter. Arms wound around each other, skin on skin, breathing each other in. “You’re wrong, Harry… You deserve so much.” Everything soft and lovely and beautiful, that’s what Harry deserves. Everything perfect and full of love. Only good.

 

“I love you,” Harry says again, so soft and quiet, pressed into the crook of his neck.

 

It’s unexpected in the quiet moment, and Louis tries not to notice how _right_ it feels.

 

As if his declaration of love deserves a disclaimer, he adds, “I’m sorry. I know I’m a burden, but I can’t help it. I can’t help how much I love you. I’m sorry.”

 

Louis pulls him onto his lap. Strokes his cheek softly. Pulls away enough to look into his eyes. In the light of sobriety, what he’s about to say will change everything, and they won’t be able to go back or rewind or forget. But it’s important.

 

“Never apologize for loving me, or anyone, alright? You aren’t a burden.” He lays his hands gently on Harry’s cheeks, stroking his thumbs gently up and down. His eyes are bright beautiful green, hopeful and glistening with tears. “I love you too, okay? I love you.”

 

“Louis… Really?”

 

Last night he feared Harry could never truly love him, but today he hears the sincerity in his voice, and it makes him think twice. He’s torn, but what is he supposed to do? Reject Harry so coldly and toss him to the side? Confessing his own feelings is the only way to avoid hurting him.

 

“I do. I love you a lot.”

 

Harry starts sobbing and Louis doesn’t know what to do but hold him.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.”

 

“It’s alright, baby, I know it’s a lot to deal with. Everything’s going to be alright, I promise.”

 

“I still have to give you your gift…” He stretches from Louis’ grasp to grab the box he left on the coffee table, turning it in his hands and giving it to Louis. “It’s not, um, it’s not the best, but I tried.”

 

Louis shakes his head and unwraps carefully just like Harry did, so he can save the paper and reuse it. There’s a box, and then the back of a picture frame. He flips it over.

 

It’s a drawing of a picture that had been taken of the five of them one night a few months ago when they had gone roller skating together. Niall is grinning widely in the middle, flanked by Liam and Zayn on his left, and Louis and Harry on the right. Their arms are all around each other, holding each other up because no one was really good at skating, and they kept stumbling and almost falling. There are so many details in the drawing, though, made by Harry’s careful hand. It’s beautiful, and it overwhelms him.

 

“Christ, Harry, this is gorgeous. I love it so much… Thank you. You’re so talented, darling.”

 

Harry smiles happily, relieved, and hugs Louis again.

 

“Seriously, this is amazing. I’ll have to find a good place to put it.”

 

Happy to have made Harry beam at him, Louis compliments him more on his art, pointing out the specifics of what he likes, only giving the most positive feedback. Harry accepts the compliments shyly, not quite meeting his eyes, blushing heavily. It’s adorable, sweet, and entirely too much to handle.

 

They sit in silence for a while, just holding each other and relishing in the warm flood of emotions they’re experiencing right now. Love. Everything is complicated and convoluted but for now they have this, and it’s enough. It is.

 

In a little while, Harry is yawning like a sleepy kitten, barely muffling it behind his hand to hide it. Louis notices this like he notices everything about Harry, because he’s observant when it comes to this man he loves so much, and he never wants to miss anything. He strokes his fingers through Harry’s hair and says, “So… So we have a little bit to talk about, but I think we should wait until tomorrow and just enjoy this now, yeah? I’m exhausted. We should go to sleep.”

 

“We still haven’t- We still need to come.”

 

“What? Oh-” He’s right, they haven’t had sex yet today, and they need to, if they want to keep their deal. Louis isn’t sure exactly what’s holding him in this agreement, but he needs to talk to Harry about that too. It’s not a good idea; whether they’re in a relationship or not, it doesn’t seem like it’s healthy.

 

Tomorrow, he amends. Tomorrow they’ll talk about everything, and figure it all out. Tomorrow they’ll fix what they broke.

 

He kisses gently at Harry’s neck and then eases him off his lap. “Hey baby, will you go get lube and a condom from my bag, and meet me back here in a minute?”

 

Harry nods and flutters away, following orders. While he’s gone, Louis decides to move from the couch to the armchair, figuring he’ll get better leverage. He debates stripping out of his clothes but realizes he’d rather have Harry do it for him, maybe after he makes him come once or twice. They have time.

 

When Harry returns with exactly the items Louis asked for, Louis praises him and offers up his lap as reward, keeping his legs together so he has a place to sit. Harry waits for instructions and sits down when Louis tells him to, and he’s so obedient, so good.

 

“Thank you for following orders, baby, you did lovely.” He wraps one arm around Harry’s middle to pull his back flush against him, feeling the warmth radiating off his body. Harry is still dressed in the clothes he wore for traveling, soft sweats and a loose long-sleeve shirt, and Louis uses his free hand to pull down his waistband, touching him softly so he arches his back and breathes out little moans of pleasure.

 

“Please, Daddy,” he whines, head lolling back on Louis’ shoulder. “Please, I love you.”

 

Another thing to talk about tomorrow. There’s still something about Harry calling Louis Daddy that makes him feel slightly sick, probably from the way Harry’s actual father treated him, and how he also calls Roman the same exact name. He still decides to just go with it though, decides that they’ll sort it out later. For now, he’s going to take care of Harry as he needs, and then they’re going to go to sleep, and everything will be okay.

 

He slips his hand into Harry’s underwear and pulls him off, coaxing his first orgasm of the night out of him. By then, he’s absolutely fucked out already, but Louis doesn’t slow down as he wets his fingers with lubricant and sinks one finger into his warm heat to open him up. He goes at a moderate pace, taking his time so Harry has the opportunity to recover.

 

His movements are languid, relaxed, and uncalculated. It’s a nice moment to sit back and enjoy the sounds he’s eliciting from the man on his lap. By the time he’s open and ready, Louis is nice and hard, so he lifts Harry up by the hips and lets him slowly sink down onto his cock.

 

Harry is careful, sinking slowly so he doesn’t hurt himself, and Louis gives him time, not pressuring him or rushing him. When he’s fully seated, he waits for the instructions to move, and then he does, lifting up and dropping back down to an incongruent pace that makes his toes curl. Louis lets Harry use him for his own pleasure like that, content really just to watch and feel the tightness around him that brings him so close to the edge.

 

When Harry gets tired, Louis helps him out by pistoning his hips upward and fucking into him hard. The movements force sharp stabs of breath out of Harry’s lungs as he whimpers and whines. It isn’t long before he comes, slumping back on Louis’ chest, and Louis isn’t far behind either.

 

They curl around each other, chests heaving, and don’t say anything for a while. Louis is the one to get them up and to the bathroom to clean up before bed. They wipe the come off each other, and then share the sink as they brush their teeth. Harry gets toothpaste all over his chin, making him look like quite the character, and they laugh so hard they nearly choke on the minty foam.

 

It’s a strange sort of intimacy compared to fifteen minutes ago when they were literally having sex on the armchair. Getting off is nice, but there’s something special to moments like this, when their guards are down and they feel completely comfortable with each other, just existing.

 

“Hey, Lou?”

 

“Yeah, hon?”

 

“Are things between us gonna be… I mean, are we gonna be okay? Like it won’t be weird?”

 

Louis wants to ask why it would be weird, but he thinks better of it. “Of course things are gonna be okay.”

 

“Alright…” He doesn’t sound very convinced.

 

To prove his point, Louis leans in and hugs him tightly. He could’ve gone for a kiss, but decided against it. In this context, a hug is more meaningful to them both, because it shows that Louis cares for him no matter what, whether they find themselves in a romantic relationship or just a friendship.

 

They’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.

 

“Get some sleep now, yeah?”

 

Harry eyes him warily, then dips in to kiss his cheek. “I don’t deserve you.”

 

He disappears down the hall, closing the door to his bedroom behind him.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Perhaps the worst thing about love is that it isn’t a magic remedy that makes everyone’s problems disappear.

 

This phenomenon is seen most clearly in the way that Louis can love Harry as much as he wants but that sure as hell won’t stop him from having nightmares.

 

He wakes up to the spine-chilling sound of screaming, which is a sound he’s quite used to by now. The walk to Harry’s bedroom is muscle memory, though it has been a bit disrupted from the change of scenery of their road trip. He trips over a canvas in the room but hardly notices, too focused on getting to Harry and waking him up.

 

It hurts so badly to see him like this. Shaking with fear.

 

He keeps repeating “I’m sorry,” like a broken record. Louis isn’t sure if he’s apologizing to the subject of his nightmares, or to Louis, so he just holds him and hopes to soothe him with a hand stroking through his hair.

 

“Shhh love, it’s alright. Nothing can hurt you know. You’re safe here.”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

 

“It’s okay Harry. You’re alright.” He wants to ask, _What are you thinking right now? What’s going on inside of that dark mind of yours?_

 

“I’m sorry, Lou, I’m sorry for waking you.”

 

“Don’t apologize. I don’t mind. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

 

“I miss the hotel rooms. I always slept better then.”

 

A silence falls over them.

 

“Do you think… Do you think it was because I had you with me?”

 

“Maybe,” Louis considers. “You did have a nightmare, though. When we were on our trip. Two, actually, I think.”

 

“We were in separate rooms the second time though.”

 

“So you’re saying that having someone with you makes them better?”

 

“Maybe..? I’m not sure…”

 

“Do you want me in here, then, with you?”

 

Harry hesitates, and it makes Louis feel a little sick. “Maybe… I don’t know…” He sounds frustrated and distraught, running a hand through his sleep-messy curls, hastily wiping at the tear tracks on his face.

 

“It’s alright, H, there’s no pressure. Just, whatever you decide, tell me, okay? I’ll be happy to help.”

 

“Okay… Thank you. Do you think maybe… Do you think maybe you could stay with me tonight?”

 

“Of course, love. Do you wanna go to sleep, or do something else to take your mind off of everything?”

 

“Can you- Do you think you can read to me?”

 

“Read to you? Like, read a book?”

 

Harry blushes, turning away from the light of the lamp on the nightstand, almost as if he’s hiding. “I mean, yeah… I love the sound of your voice- It’s so soft and soothing.”

 

Louis’ heart melts a little. Or maybe a lot. “What would you like me to read?”

 

So at two o’clock in the morning he finds himself curled up in bed with his roommate/friend/lover, reading through a book of poetry from the shelf in Harry’s room. The poems are strange and sad but beautiful, and Harry seems to like them, humming along to the lines that resonate with him.

 

They’re lying on Harry’s mattress on the floor, with Harry’s arm around Louis. Louis snuggles into the crook of his arm and props the book up on his chest, whispering the words long after Harry falls back asleep. He doesn’t stop until his words turn slow and lethargic from sleep, and he’s unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

 

One phrase sticks with him though, even in his dreams:

 

_There is thunder in our hearts._

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


They wake up sleep-soft and entangled in each other. Harry has his arms latched around Louis’ upper back, pulling him closely so Louis’ face is jammed against his chest.

 

It’s stifling hot, but rather than feeling uncomfortable, it just feels safe.

 

“Harry, babe?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

His voice is muffled from being pressed into the worn fabric of Harry’s sleeping shirt. He tries to pull back but there’s a hand at the back of his neck holding him in place. “We gotta get up and pick up Cliff from Liam. We’re supposed to be at his in an hour.”

 

“It’s only a ten minute walk, Lou, we’ll be fine. We can stay here for a little bit.”

 

“Fine, but only if we use this as an opportunity to talk about all the shit we need to talk about. I’m sick of putting it off.”

 

“Alright. Where do you wanna start?”

 

Now, Louis feels glad they’re pressed so close together, because there’s no pressure to make eye contact. For a conversation like this one, it’s a relief to just hold and be held.

 

“I have a question for you, and I want your honest answer, not just the answer you think I want to hear.” Louis feels the movement of Harry nodding in response, agreeing. He closes his eyes and steals himself to ask, “Do you want a relationship? And not just like… Not something like what you had with Roman, but like, a real relationship. One that’s built off of more than just sex.”

 

“I want… I want a real relationship, with you.”

 

Louis breathes in the scent of Harry, floral and soft with the bite of tobacco. Like roses and smoke, that’s what he smells like. Especially after months of becoming acquainted with it, it’s a fragrance that comforts Louis now. It grounds him.

 

“So like, so when you say that, what does a real relationship mean to you? Because I’m worried we might have different ideas.”

 

“I want to be with you in every way,” Harry admits boldly. “I want to go on dates with you, and just hang out with you, and sleep with you, and everything. I don’t… I’m not very good at this, I don’t think. I’ve never done this before. But I want to try.”

 

“What made you change your mind? A few weeks ago you still wanted to be with Roman.”

 

“I… I didn’t know you even liked me. But then you let me pressure you into sleeping with me and I thought maybe… I don’t know.”

 

“But you still like Roman.”

 

“That’s not- I don’t know if I ever really liked him. He just… He just takes care of me, sometimes.”

 

Louis smoothes his palm along the subtle curve of Harry’s hip. When he stands to his full height he looks very masculine, tall, lean, and commanding, but when he’s lying down like this it’s easy to forget his strength and to see only softness instead. “Every time you’ve see him, you’ve come back crying and covered in bruises.”

 

“I ask for it, sometimes.”

 

“What do you mean?”  


“I mean, like, I deserve it. If I mess up, he punishes me. It’s only fair,” he whispers.

 

“Harry, that’s not… That’s not normal. What do you mean ‘mess up’? People in relationships don’t do that. They don’t hurt each other like that.”

 

“I mean if I do something wrong or do something he told me not to do, he’ll hurt me. I know it’s not healthy but that’s just us, that’s just the way Roman and I are.”

 

To some extent, Louis gets it. He understands. He understands that Harry keeps going back to Roman because he wants to be with someone, and because he feels like he deserves the harshness, the hurt.

 

A couple nights ago he was doing research about the after effects of trauma, in order to shed some light on Harry’s situation. A common disorder that follows frequent abuse during childhood is Borderline Personality Disorder, shortened to BPD. The idea behind BPD is that anyone who suffers from it will “make frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment.” More than anything, they fear separation and rejection from those they love.

 

Psych Central stated that “individuals with Borderline Personality Disorder have a pattern of unstable and intense relationships.” Louis isn’t sure if Harry has BPD, and he’s really only making a guess, but it seems to fit. That worries him.

 

People with BPD are often impulsive and self-damaging. One common activity is engaging in reckless and unsafe sex. Something Harry does quite often.

 

What worries Louis is the small tab on the Psych Central website that mentions “suicidal tendencies.”

 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face even closer to Harry’s chest, feeling the warmth radiating off of him. “Okay,” he whispers. “If we’re in a relationship, we can’t half-ass it, though. I’m not okay with sharing you with anyone.”

 

“I get that. I don’t- I just want you.”

 

“Alright, good.” There’s a warm feeling in his chest that spreads despite the nerves and the worry. “What do you say we give it a try, then?”

 

They’ve done a few things out of order, like sleeping together, and moving in together. That’s alright. They’ve always been a bit backwards, haven’t they?

 

“Yes, please. Please, I really want that.”

 

From there, they’re quiet for a little while. Louis still has a lot of questions but the mood isn’t right. He’s thinking he’ll have a lot of time to ask them, later.

 

Besides, Harry rolls on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, and things get a little heated. Harry kisses him hard, morning breath be damned, and ruts their hips together.

 

Panting from the fervor of the kiss, he asks, “You really wanna go again?”

 

“Always wanna, with you,” Harry whispers to him, kissing down his neck.

 

Louis lets him, because it feels nice, and because he wants to keep Harry happy. Those are good reasons to have sex, right?

 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is on his knees, clinging to the headboard so Louis doesn’t ram him into it. When he opened himself up, he hissed at the soreness but kept assuring Louis he would be fine, regardless. He likes how it feels, he keeps saying, the pain mixed with the pleasure of it all.

 

Louis always hesitates at least a little bit, but it does seem to be true that Harry likes it rough, so he obliges. They’re both making a lot of noise, moaning loudly, Harry’s voice high-pitched and whimpery, as the bed slams into the wall repeatedly. They’ll probably get a complaint, or maybe even get kicked out of the apartment building, but neither of them can bring themselves to care.

 

Only a little bit ago, Harry had been urging Louis “harder, harder,” but now all he’s doing is gasping, and it sounds a bit like he’s crying too, which means Louis’ movements are effective. He reaches down to pull Harry off, helping him along, because he can feel his own orgasm building low and deep in his core.

 

“Close, ‘m close,” Harry rasps out, his voice almost entirely gone from screaming so much, reduced to a quiet whimper.

 

“I know baby, you’re doing so well. Just hang on a little longer, okay? Wait until I come.”

 

“Louis, Lou, please…”

 

“Hang on baby, almost there, it’s okay. You’re so good. So good for me. Taking me so well.”

 

“It hurts, Daddy-”

 

He stops immediately, stilling inside Harry. “What’s your color, Harry?”

 

“Green, green,” he gasps. “Please, it hurts, but it- Feels so good…”

 

Louis sets his hand on the sexy arch of Harry’s back, smoothing along the skin and rubbing to soothe him. He doesn’t want to hurt him, but he has to trust Harry. He pulls out again and presses back in slightly gentler this time, until Harry cries at him to go harder.

 

“‘M close, ‘m gonna- I can’t-” he babbles, dropping down to his forearms which arches his back even more, ass in the air, changing the angle and making it even better for both of them.

 

“Hang on baby, just a little bit longer, you can do it…”

 

Louis is just about to come when somehow, over the melody of their activities, he hears a knock at the door. He ignores it at first, but after at least ten hard pounds against the door to the apartment, Louis stops completely.

 

“What the hell is that?” he asks, pulling out and sitting back on his knees.

 

Harry collapses forward into a pile of limbs, rolling over to look at Louis. His dick is angry red, so full of blood the tip is nearly purple, all tension built up and begging to be released. It curves against his stomach, leaking shiny precome, and if Harry wasn’t so inclined to follow orders he would probably be jacking himself off right now. But he’s not, because he’s a good boy.

 

The knocking is still there.

 

“Who could that be? Do you have anyone coming over today?”

 

“No, of course not,” Harry breathes. “Could it be Liam?”

 

“I thought we agreed on picking Cliff up from his place. I mean, maybe he was fed up that we were later? But I don’t… I don’t know. I’m gonna go check.”

 

Harry whimpers. “Don’t leave me…”

 

“I’ll be right back, baby, and then we’ll finish, okay?”

 

He definitely isn’t in any state to open the door, and doesn’t really know what to do about his own dick, which is rock hard and covered in a lubricated condom. He decides to just fuck it, pulling on some briefs so it isn’t so obvious. The only shirt within reach is the one he pulled off Harry not too long ago, so he grabs it and pulls it on, and then a beanie to cover his very obvious sex hair.

 

Once dressed, he kisses Harry sweetly and spares one glance of admiration at him. He’s curled up on the bed, naked and breathing heavily.

 

It’s a challenge to walk away from him but he promises he’ll be back to finish in a few minutes. He doesn’t know who could be at the door right now, but he’s prepared to tell them off for interrupting him in the middle of something very important.

 

The knocking continues all the while Louis makes his way to the door. He swings it open with vigor, ready to tell off whoever it is for interrupting his very pleasurable, very mind-blowing sex with Harry. The person on the other side of the door makes him stop short.

 

He stares, open-mouthed, and manages a weak, “What,” moments later.

 

“Surprise,” she says, with a devilish glint in her eyes.

 

“Mum.” His voice is very deadpan, with no inflection. “What are you doing here.”

 

She doesn’t wait to be invited inside; she just brushes past him and walks into the living room. Lottie and Fizzy trail behind her, snickering. “Well, I was going to tell you when you called me on your birthday like you said you would, but. You didn’t call me, so.”

 

“Mum.”

 

“We’re in town for three days. We’re staying at a hotel a few blocks away. Don’t worry.”

 

Louis stares after her, still shocked out of his mind. He’s standing in front of his mother and eldest sisters, wearing boxers and Harry’s t-shirt and nothing else. Literally just five minutes ago he was in the middle of a very passionate moment with his roommate.

 

On top of it all, he actually does feel bad for forgetting to call his mum on his birthday. Though, the rational part of his mind wonders why she didn’t just call him instead. Whatever. It’s too late now, he’s already in trouble. His family already flew across the Atlantic ocean to prove a point to him.

 

“Um, mum, now isn’t really the best time.”

 

She ignores him. “Is that a new shirt? I’ve never seen it before. It’s a bit big on you.”

 

“It’s Harry’s,” Louis answers, before he realizes that saying the truth might not be the best idea. Because it’s exactly what it looks like, and it doesn’t look very good.

 

“Oh, is it?” she asks, that same glint in her eyes, and yeah, that’s when Louis knows she knows. She definitely knows they just had sex.

 

He’s going to die of embarrassment. “Mum-”

 

“Lou?”

 

 _Uh-oh,_ Louis’ mind laments. He watches Harry walk down the hallway and tentatively join them in the living room. He hasn’t noticed Louis’ mum or sisters yet because he’s only looking at Louis.

 

He’s wearing really short shorts that expose the length of his thighs and don’t leave much to the imagination in the crotch area. Like, there’s a definite bulge there, because Harry is big even when he’s soft, and he’s sure as hell not soft right now. He’s also wearing a loose black tank top he typically wears when he does yoga on weekend mornings.

 

“Who’s this?” She knows exactly who he is.

 

Louis bites his lip. Harry seems to notice they have company. His eyes widen and he pulls the hem of his tank top down to hopefully maintain some sense of dignity. Still, Louis isn’t expecting him to recover so quickly and cross the room with grace, holding his hand out for a handshake.

 

“Hi, I’m Harry. Lou’s, um. Louis’ roommate.”

 

“Hi, Harry. I’ve heard a bit about you. I’m Jay, Louis’ mum. And we don’t do handshakes here, we do hugs.”

 

“Mum-”

 

She ignores his warning and hugs Harry anyway. Louis knows he isn’t the biggest fan of physical touch, especially from strangers, but he takes it well, sinking into her hold a bit and not standing too rigidly. He makes eye contact with Louis over Jay’s shoulder, and the blush on his face is obvious.

 

Louis wants to take Harry in his arms, stroke his back, and apologize for his family showing up unannounced. He also wants to drag Harry back to the bedroom and finish what had been interrupted. He loves his mother and sisters a lot, but when they do things like this, it’s hard to not be at least a little annoyed with them.

 

“Well, nice to see you boys. We were thinking we could leave for brunch right now, right girls? There’s a cafe we passed on the way here that we want to try.”

 

“Oh, you mean like all of us. Um, mum, I think Harry is busy, we shouldn’t occupy all his time…”

 

She levels him with an unimpressed stare. “It won’t be too long. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

 

Louis feels the irritation like an itch under his skin. “Okay, fine. It’s just a bit rude to barge in unannounced and then force my roommate to come along with us.”

 

“We wouldn’t have been unannounced if you had called me, dear. It’s rude to not call your mother on the holidays.”

 

“I’m sorry, mum. I was really busy.”

 

She pulls Louis in a hug too. “I know, boo, I’m just teasing you. We thought it would be a nice surprise, since we haven’t seen you in forever.”

 

Louis sighs. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t enjoying being in their presence again, as annoying as it is. He hasn’t seen them in forever, and was really sad to miss out on the holiday traditions this year, even if it did mean he got to accompany Harry on his trip to Illinois.

 

While the girls are busy inspecting the apartment, he pulls Harry to the side and sets a gentle, grounding hand on his lower back. “I’m really sorry about this,” he whispers.

 

“It’s alright. They seem to really love you. I get it.”

 

“God, thank you. You’re so amazing.” If Harry was anyone else, they would probably be so pissed off and annoyed with Louis’ family. Luckily, Harry is an actual angel and acts accordingly. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”

 

Harry blushes even more. “Yeah, they definitely caught us at a bad time.”

 

“Mum knows, I think.” She’s very perceptive and they’re not subtle at all.

 

“I’m so embarrassed.”

 

“Me too, babe, but it’s alright. How about you go take a shower and get ready to go out?”

 

Harry smiles at him and dives in for a quick hug of gratitude before he turns around and hightails it down the hall, to the bathroom. Louis watches him go, admiring his ass in those shorts, before he turns around and realizes his family is watching him.

 

They’re all grinning at him like the cat who caught the mouse.

 

“Louis, do you have something to tell us?”

 

He glares. “No, absolutely not.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“So Harry, do you have a boyfriend?”

 

“Ummm,” he spares a glance at Louis like he’s wondering how to answer. “Um, no. I don’t.”

 

“Lottie,” Louis says calmly. “Can you please stop being invasive?”

 

“Shut up. I’m making conversation.”

 

Harry is a little uncomfortable but for the most part he’s dealing with Louis’ family very well. The walk to the cafe was an adventure because the weather is so horrid, and it’s a relief to be inside now. Jay has mellowed out and is back to her usual sweet self, now officially over the fact that Louis didn’t call her even when he said he would.

 

“Louis doesn’t have a boyfriend either,” Fizzy supplies, sharing a look with Lottie and laughing. They can be such little shits sometimes, but Louis loves them anyways. Sometimes.

 

Besides, if they’re trying to set up him and Harry for the sheer sake of matchmaking drama, they’re out of luck, because Louis and Harry are already sort of together. They haven’t discussed anything yet, but the term _relationship_ has already been floating around, so.

 

Something that confuses Louis is how Harry acts around Jay, Lottie, and Fizzy. He had expected Harry to be shy and reserved like he is with his own parents, but that’s not true. Today, Harry is amiable, personable, and charismatic, making all three of them fall in love with him. All _four_ of them, if Louis is included, as he should be. Seeing Harry with his family makes him love him even more.

 

They get pastries from the bakery which sets Harry off into a monologue about the pastries he wants to try baking at home. Which leads into Jay telling him about a dish she’s been meaning to try. Which leads into the two of them excitedly sharing recipes. Which leads to Harry letting it spill that he’s been cooking Louis dinner for months, now.

 

“Wow,” Lottie mutters, eyebrows raised. Fizzy looks over at Louis and gives him an appreciative smile, like _good catch! Harry’s great!_

 

Jay’s mouth is parted in surprise but she covers it quickly. “I knew Lou couldn’t have been surviving on his own for this long. Of course he had someone cooking meals for him,” she laughs, and Louis rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m not completely helpless,” he mutters, although he can’t remember the last time he cooked something and it turned out edible. Harry has been taking care of almost all meals together, recently.

 

“Lou is okay in the kitchen,” Harry lies, sticking up for him. “He made us pancakes once, and they were-” He looks around the table and sees everyone staring at him expectantly. “They were okay,” he says quietly, biting his lip, like it’s the best compliment he can come up with without sounding completely over the top.

 

Louis swats him in the arm indignantly, and then feels bad for hitting him and rubs the sore spot with his fingers to make up for it. “Whatever. We can’t all be good at cooking.”

 

Harry nods along, agreeing with him probably just to placate him.

 

Louis grabs his hand underneath the table and interlaces their fingers. He has to eat the rest of his breakfast with his left hand. It’s a struggle, but it’s worth it.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


They spend the day ice skating.

 

Unsurprisingly, Harry and Louis are awful at it.

 

It’s like the night they went roller skating, all over again. Harry falls on his ass so many times, it’s definitely bruised by the end of the night. Every time he goes down, he takes Louis with him.

 

“Christ, you’re awful,” Louis grumbles, the seventh time they’re on the freezing cold ice in a depressing heap of limbs. Everyone else seems to skate by with no problem. Lottie and Fizzy can’t stop laughing at them every time they pass by, and Louis catches his mum hiding a snicker behind her hand. “You’re always pulling me down with you.”

 

“Sorry,” Harry pouts. “It’s just reflex.”

 

Louis is the first to stand, albeit unsteadily on his skates. Then he works on getting Harry up too. He pulls him up by the hands. The minute Harry’s gloved hands are in his own bare ones, warmth floods through his body. He forgot gloves, but doesn’t want to complain about it because that would be annoying and his mum would reprimand him for forgetting.

 

Harry seems to notice though, without Louis even saying a word, that his hands are cold. When they’re both upright and standing, he doesn’t let go, and instead pulls them together and clasps Louis’ hands to his chest.

 

“I’m surprised you haven’t said anything yet, freeze baby.” He brings Louis’ hands to his mouth and exhales hot, humid breath on them. They begin to feel a little less numb.

 

“Oh please, I’m fine.”

 

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Harry points out unhelpfully.

 

Louis tries to glare at him but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work anymore, pretty sure it’s physically impossible to contort his face that way at Harry. He only ends up looking fond. It’s a problem.

 

Harry engulfs him in a hug, resting his chin atop Louis’ beanie-covered head. They’ve given up on skating, since they’re both so bad at it. There’s no hope.

 

The girls coo at them when they zing by on their skates. Louis blocks it out and presses closer to Harry’s warmth.

  
When he’s with Harry, it’s easy to forget the rest of the world.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


On the way back, they stop by Liam’s to pick up Clifford.

 

“Sorry we’re so late.”

 

“Not a problem, man, I love Little Bro.” Liam calls Clifford Little Bro, and has been calling him this for as long as he can remember. It would be weird if Louis wasn’t so used to it already. “We had a good time while you were gone. How was your trip, by the way? Everything okay?”

 

Louis looks back to where Harry and his family are standing, just out of earshot. He’d love to tell Liam everything but now isn’t the right time. “I’ll have to update you later. Shit happened, though. Nothing bad, really. Just. A lot.”

 

“I get it. Anything I can do?”

 

“Nah, we’re okay. Thanks though. For watching Cliff and answering my call and everything.”

 

“Of course, no problem.”

 

“I guess I’ll see you later then, yeah? We have to catch up.”

 

“We better. I need to hear all the juicy details.”

 

They say their goodbyes and Louis departs, meeting back up with his family and Harry. Clifford trots happily at his side, excited to see everyone again.

 

“Cliff baby!” Harry exclaims when he sees them approaching. He drops down to his knees on the dirty sidewalk and Clifford gallops towards him, jumping up and nuzzling against his face. Harry hugs him and peppers his face with kisses, murmuring praises. “Who’s my good boy, who’s my baby?”

 

The rest of them just stand there and watch it happen, letting them have their moment.

 

“Louis.”

 

“Huh?”

 

 _Marry him,_ Lottie mouths. Fizzy nods vigorously in agreement. Jay just watches them all with a big grin on her face.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


It’s Fizzy’s idea to watch a movie. They’re exhausted from a day of physical activity and want to decompress on the couch.

 

Louis had partly expected them to leave when they got back to the apartment, giving Harry and him time to relax before the next outing tomorrow, but it was a surprisingly pleasant surprise to hear they wanted to stay. He wants to apologize to Harry for his family occupying his entire day but Harry seems to be just fine. In fact, he actually seems happy.

 

“So. What movie?”

 

As it turns out, everyone is in the mood for a romantic comedy. Louis and Harry are always in the mood for a romantic comedy. This is good news because the only movies they own on DVD are rom coms. They settle on watching Pride and Prejudice, which has Harry so excited he trips over his own feet when bringing the bowls of popcorn back to the family room and almost makes a mess that would be hell to clean up. He catches himself at the last second and has the decency to blush with embarrassment as Louis teases him about it.

 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, because he has no better comeback to Louis making fun of him. He hands the popcorn to the girls who are sitting on the loveseat together and then swivels around to face the couch. Jay scooches over, giving Harry room to sit between her and Louis. He sits down shyly, and Lottie presses play on the movie.

 

“Hey, kiddo?” Louis whispers.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Mind if I lean on you? I’m knackered.”

 

Harry frowns at him, but offers his side up anyways. Louis leans into him gratefully, feeling the beautiful warmth from his body. It soaks through his skin, into his bones, until he feels calm and sated, slumped up against Harry.

 

“You better not fall asleep, Lou. This is one of the best movies ever.”

 

“I know, babe, I won’t.”

 

He’s out before Elizabeth and Darcy’s first dance.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Dozing off is a strange experience because in the fading light between sleep and wake, it’s difficult to decipher reality from dream. Louis hears familiar voices speaking in hushed tones, and he wonders if it’s real.

 

It’s his mum’s voice, saying, “Darling, can I say something to you?”

 

He feels more than hears the next voice. Harry. Louis is curled up against his side, with Harry’s warm, heavy arm wrapped around his shoulder. He feels safe and secure, protected from the world. “Of course, of course.” He sounds startled, caught off guard.

 

“I want to be honest with you dear, and say that Louis hasn’t told me much, but he did mention one thing. He told me a bit about your family, and that you aren’t close to them. That they don’t really support you.”

 

Harry is very still and quiet, but as Jay speaks, Louis can feel Harry tensing up his arm around Louis, his body going rigid.

 

“I just wanted you to know,” Jay continues, her voice soft but serious, “that if you ever need family, or a place to stay, or someone to support you, you will always have me, and Louis, and our family. We’re willing to reach out and help, if ever you need it, or want it.”

 

“Thank you,” Harry breathes, rubbing his fingers in small circles on Louis’ arm. It’s funny, because the action is traditionally meant to soothe the one whose skin is being rubbed, but right now it seems that Harry is the one who finds it soothing. Louis finds he likes it that Harry finds comfort in being near him. Something like pride swells in his chest, filling him with satisfaction.

 

“Whether you’re just friends or something more with Louis, you’re a part of our family if you want to be.”

 

Harry’s fingers still momentarily. He keeps them pressed into Louis’ bicep, not hard, just a constant pressure that shows he’s there. Louis’ skin tingles beneath his fingertips. “Thank you. That really means a lot.”

 

“And I… I want to tell you something else. About Louis.”

 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just gives her the space to speak.

 

“He’s different with you. He’s never been like this before. It’s hard for me to admit it to myself, but he’s been… He’s been pretty bad for a while. It’s great to see him better, more like his usual self. Because of you. I’m not sure how much he told you about what happened, because he’s a very private boy so I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t mention it, but-”

 

“The pictures?”

 

Louis remains very still, heart thudding heavily in his chest. He hadn’t known his mother worried about him so much, or even noticed a change in him… It must have been more apparent than he thought.

 

“Yes, dear, what his ex-boyfriend did to him. You know what happened?”

 

He feels Harry nod. “He told me.”

 

“I’m surprised. He doesn’t talk about it with just anyone. That’s good, though. Great, even. I think he needed to get it off his chest. My point is that he’s been bad for a while now, feeling down. It seems like depression to me but I never wanted to say anything in case I was wrong. I mean, I’m not an expert. But I’ve noticed a change, since you’ve moved in with him. I could call it a coincidence, but that would just be me being purposefully obtuse.”

 

“I don’t know what to say.”

 

“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I haven’t seen him this happy in a while. He enjoys your company. You take care of him in just the way he needs—I know it, and I hope you do too.”

 

“He takes care of _me,_ ” Harry protests weakly, voice deep and whisper-soft like velvet. It’s like he can’t believe the simple truth that he does take care of Louis just like Jay said, even if it isn’t explicitly purposeful. “He’s good to me. I’ve never met anyone like him. I don’t deserve him.”

 

“Oh honey,” Jay soothes. “You _do_ deserve him. Two sweet boys with all this love in their hearts… You deserve each other.”

 

Louis snuggles closer to Harry’s warmth, sighing in pleasure. Harry comforts him by rubbing his arm a bit more. Then he reaches up and brushes back Louis’ fringe with a certain gentleness that cannot be feigned. He runs his fingers through his hair a few times. The motion sends chills down Louis’ spine. He sinks even more into Harry’s hold.

 

“Now, I’m gonna wake the girls up and we’ll leave you two in peace now. Tell Lou we’ll back tomorrow around lunchtime, alright? We wanna go shopping, all of us together.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sounds good. Thank you.”

 

Jay kisses Harry and Louis on the forehead, saying her farewells.

 

“See you tomorrow, then,” Harry says, quiet enough so as not to wake Louis who is already awake but he doesn’t know it.

 

“Good night, Harry,” Jay calls as she ushers the sleepy girls outside and shuts the door behind her.

 

The apartment is filled with only the sound of the heater, and the Pride and Prejudice menu screen playing softly in the background. Louis likes the hum of the classical music because it reminds him of watching this movie with his mum, years ago when he was much younger and still lived at home with her.

 

Harry sits on the couch for a long while, so long that Louis thinks he’ll fall asleep and they’ll stay there all night.

 

Eventually, however, Harry eases himself up, hauling Louis with him until he’s standing and Louis is in his arms. It must not be easy to maneuver his deadweight but he manages without a noticeable struggle. The way Harry takes care of him… It makes Louis feel a lot of different emotions, all at once.

 

“C’mon Lou, time for bed,” he whispers in his ear, carrying him down the hall to Louis’ bedroom and depositing him carefully in bed.

 

Harry disappears for a minute. Louis can only hear the sound of footsteps down the hall, then the noise of a door opening, more footsteps, door closing, footsteps down the hall again and back in the room. He waits with bated breath. Though it shouldn’t, really, it surprises Louis when Harry slips into bed next to him.

 

Harry scoots backwards on the mattress, pressing his back into Louis’ front until they’re spooning. He takes Louis’ limp arm and drapes it over his waist, grasping his hand by his stomach and entangling their fingers. Harry sighs happily once he’s settled. It’s then that Louis realizes he’s holding the pink stuffed bunny in his other hand, he one Louis bought him as an impulse purchase from the store. He’s clutching it to his chest.

 

Louis wants to say something about it but he’s still pretending to be asleep. Harry is still and quiet and he could very well be asleep as well. It’s when Louis realizes something he forgot that he drops the facade and says in a sleepy voice, “Didn’t get off today.”

 

“What?” Harry whispers, not sounding at all startled that Louis is speaking when he should be asleep. To be fair, it sounds as though Louis just woke up, because his voice is hoarse and raspy.

 

“Didn’t give you your orgasm today.”

 

“Oh. That’s alright,” Harry murmurs. “We were close enough this morning.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Mhm. I got off in the shower, just now. Besides, we can double up tomorrow.”

 

Louis tries not to think about Harry getting himself off earlier today, when they got back from ice skating and Louis ordered takeout while Harry took a shower to “warm himself up” from their day outside in the cold, which apparently meant jacking off or even sticking a few fingers up his ass…

 

“‘M still sorry about this morning. I could suck you off right now, though, if you want? Quick and easy orgasm.”

 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine. Was annoying but I’m over it now. And that’s a really tempting offer but I’d honestly just rather go to bed.”

 

“Okay babe, if that’s what you want.”

 

“It is. Good night, Lou.”

 

“Night, darling.”

 

Harry snuggles closer, humming a little noise of sleepy pleasure.

 

Knowing Harry is happy, Louis falls asleep without an issue.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The morning is quiet and peaceful. They wake up naturally to sunlight streaming in from the windows, since Harry forgot to close the curtains last night. Still spooning Harry, Louis holds him close. He doesn’t want to let go.

 

“Sleep well?” he asks Harry, who hums softly in response and snuggles closer.

 

“Your mum and sisters are coming back around lunchtime, they said,” Harry informs him. “Can we stay in bed for a little? Feels so nice…”

 

“Of course,” Louis whispers. He presses his face to the back of Harry’s neck, breathing him in. From months of living together, he’s gotten used to the fragrance of Harry’s skin. It comforts him now, the smell of roses and something earthy like green tea and pine trees. He always smells good, even when he hasn’t showered in a while and he isn’t wearing any perfume, and Louis doesn’t understand how that’s possible.

 

“Hey Lou?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are we gonna… Are we gonna try?”

 

“Try what, babe?”

 

Harry suddenly turns a bit shyer, his voice quieting and becoming laced with insecurity. “A relationship?”

 

Louis squeezes Harry’s hip comfortingly and smiles into the back of his neck. “Yeah, H, we can give it a try. If that’s what you want, I want it too.”

 

“Okay… good.”

 

“We should start slow, though, with like, dating. So you can get the full Louis Tomlinson experience,” he smirks.

 

“That sounds so nice,” Harry sighs, exhaling like he’s both relieved and sleepy at the same time. “Can we do that, please?”

 

“Of course,” Louis tells him, because he’s seriously thinking he’ll never ever be able to say no to him.

 

And just like that, they lie in bed for another hour, so comfortable with each other. They have a quiet, sleep-soft conversation about what they want from each other, and what they expect in terms of dating. It feels amazing to finally lay everything out in the open and discuss it clearly.

 

Louis wants to be with Harry, bottom line, that’s the deal. If Harry doesn’t want him romantically, that’s fine, he’ll stick to just friends and he won’t pressure Harry to be anything more. Harry continually assures him he does want something more, in fact, he wants everything with Louis. He whispers it over and over again into the sunny morning air, _I want everything with you. Please, I want everything with you._

 

They decide to go on their first date in a few days, the day after Louis’ family leaves, when they’ll finally have time alone to themselves. Harry is looking for apartments tomorrow, and he has to sign off on one soon in order to abide by his parents’ wishes. Even though it makes Louis’ heart ache to think that Harry will be leaving him soon, he assures Harry that it’ll be better that way, so they can date like normal people date without actually living with each other first.

 

Neither one of them likes the idea of being separated for so long. The promise that they’ll visit each other whenever they want is the only thought that calms them both.

 

“I’m letting you keep the key,” Louis tells him, “so you can come back whenever you want. You don’t even have to tell me when you stop by.”

 

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, interlacing their fingers again. “You’ll always be invited to my place, by the way. Always.”

 

It won’t be easy. Relationships with someone who has experienced heavy trauma never are. Louis isn’t stupid or romantic enough to think he could ever fix Harry, and that’s how he knows he needs to urge him to begin seeing a psychologist again. He doesn’t know how to bring it up, fearing Harry’s reaction, but it’s important. He wants to help Harry. He wants Harry to get better. He wants him to recover. To heal.

 

Louis cares about Harry a lot. He loves him. He wants him to be safe and happy, always.

 

They have a quiet morning in. Around nine o’clock, they get up to take a shower together.

 

They haven’t talked about their sexual agreement but Louis assumes it’ll come to an end around the time they start dating, unless Harry specifies otherwise. They started it in the first place because Louis wanted to make sure Harry was satisfied enough to not seek out potentially dangerous sexual situations, so he doesn’t know where that leaves them now. Maybe they’ll continue hooking up, and maybe they won’t. As long as Harry is safe.

 

Whatever this means for their future, it means that they’ll have shower sex right now, in the present. They share mutual blowjobs, and then Louis gets Harry off a second time with just his fingers, as promised. By the time they’re all clean and toweled off, he’s sure their water bill has skyrocketed from the amount of time they spent in the shower. It was definitely worth it, though.

 

“Your family is really great,” Harry muses as they’re both getting dressed, slipping into jeans and jumpers to protect them from the cold weather. “Your sisters are hilarious, and your mom is really kind. I- I don’t know what I was expecting, I guess, but like, it’s a really nice surprise.”

 

Louis smiles at him, feeling a warm beam of light spread across his heart. “They love you already, Harry. As expected. I don’t know how anyone could meet you and not fall in love immediately.”

 

His words cause Harry to blush bashfully, his gaze shifting to his feet. Sometimes, his insecurity can be frustrating, but on days like this, it’s nothing more than the most endearing trait in the world. Louis wants to smother him with hugs and kisses until he believes it.

 

Around noon, Louis’ family shows up with the type of energy only they can bring. It’s a bit overwhelming at first, if you’re not used to it. He can see the small amount of worry on Harry’s face, like he’s afraid he might not survive a second day with Louis’ families constant zest and vitality. Louis stands by his side and sets a hand on his lower back to comfort him, like, _I’m here if you need me. We’ll do this together._

 

They head out into the winter cold and explore the city until they find a good place to shop. The stores were a little pricey but Jay was set on buying them gifts for the holidays, even though she had already given presents to the girls.

 

Louis didn’t mind shopping that much, although it could be tiring at times with his family. Harry was tentative at first to even peruse the stores for items he might want, but after a bit of coaxing he began to have fun too.

 

The best part of the day for Louis ends up being the fact that he gets his own little fashion show from Harry every time Harry tries on clothes. He looks beautiful in everything, no matter the style and no matter the fit, and it’s fun to watch him twirl in the mirror or pretend the hallway of the dressing rooms is a catwalk for models.

 

The group splits up for a while when the girls want to shop for makeup and Jay shoos Harry and Louis away to keep whatever gift she has for them as a surprise. They walk down the street for a while until Harry spots a store he wants to check out, and he drags Louis with him.

 

It’s a lingerie shop, the entire place covered in lace. Out of curiosity Louis checks the price tag on a random garment and isn’t exactly surprised to see how expensive it is. Harry tugs him through the store with a grip on his arm, leaving no time to protest.

 

“Fitting rooms?”

 

“Just one, please,” Harry tells the attendant. He has an armful of panties in various colors and styles. He drags Louis inside the dressing room with him, and closes the door behind them before he even realizes what’s happening.

 

Louis isn’t a stranger to lingerie, but he hasn’t worn any in a while. Really, ever since those intimate pictures ruined his life, he hasn’t gone back. It seems Harry is determined to change that, though.

 

“You try those on, and I’ll try these,” Harry says, leaving no room for debate. He sorted the mess of lingerie and now they’re in two separate piles. Louis’ pile has many darker colors and lots of blues, while Harry’s is more pastel with lots of pinks.

 

With no reason to argue, they go to separate corners of the surprisingly roomy dressing room and begin to change out of their clothes. It takes a few tries until they both are wearing something that fits and something they like, and that’s when they mutually agree to turn around and show off what they’re wearing.

 

Louis’ breath is knocked out of him when he sees Harry standing there, looking devastatingly beautiful. The panties are simple but gorgeous, rose petal pink with matching lace trim.

 

“Gorgeous,” Louis tells him, because that’s what he’s thinking. He’s unable to keep his hands away, and sets them on Harry’s hips, his love handles. “Always so beautiful. Always.”

 

“You too,” Harry whispers, pulling away enough so that he can look at Louis fully then. He admires him for a moment, taking in his midnight blue getup, the way the lace hugs the curve of his bum so perfectly. He wraps Louis in a hug, swaying them back and forth, and presses his face into his neck. “You’re amazing. You have to get those. I’m literally begging you.”

 

It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. This is the first time Louis is even considering lingerie in months and it feels good. Great, even, if he’s being honest.

 

The thing about love is that it doesn’t fix anything. Yet somehow, Harry opened Louis up and coaxed something out of him, bringing him to a point in his life where he can look back on an event that hurt him in the past and realize that it doesn’t hurt him anymore.

 

With Harry, he doesn’t fear intimacy. Is that crazy? He isn’t sure. All he knows is that it’s true.

 

“Thank you. I love you,” Louis tells him.

 

They kiss until it becomes a bit too much for a public area, even if they are in a dressing room. They still have piles of underwear to try on.

 

There’s something healing about lingerie that Louis can’t quite put his finger on. He loves it, though, loves the way it makes him feel. Confident. Sexy. Strong. Pretty. Worthy.

 

They end up spending too much money but it’s worth it. Harry can’t stop looking over at Louis with stars in his eyes and Louis knows he’s just as bad.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Louis asks about the scars later that night.

 

Figuring he shouldn’t procrastinate any longer, he takes the opportunity as it arises. Harry is sitting naked on the countertop, eating raspberries off his fingertips and singing along to whatever Spotify playlist is playing on his phone.

 

“What’re you doing?” Louis laughs, going to the fridge for a beer. He sees the cherry wine and pours himself a glass of that instead. His mind flashes back to all the times Harry has gotten drunk on cherry wine when he was upset, for god knows what reason. He pours Harry a glass too, and hands it to him.

 

“Eating raspberries. Want some?”

 

He lets Harry pop a couple in his mouth and then backs away to give him space again. “Why are you naked, then?”

 

“I dunno, I felt like it. You don’t mind, do you?”

 

If Harry were anyone else, Louis would think he was trying to seduce him. He’s not anyone else, though; he’s Harry. His answer is genuine. At least as genuine as he can be with his legs spread, sitting naked on the countertop, licking drips of raspberry juice off his hand and wrist.

 

He leans against the refrigerator and takes a sip of his wine. “Nah, it’s a nice view.”

 

“Damn right,” Harry agrees, laughing a little and tapping his fingernails on the countertop to the beat of the music. The noise sends chills of pleasure down Louis’ spine, and he’s thinking, how can he do that? How can such a simple action from Harry make Louis feel this way?

 

“Although probably more than a little unsanitary.”

 

Harry pouts at him, brushing his hair out of his face with the back of his hand. “We have to clean the kitchen, anyways. We said we would do that this week.”

 

He’s right. Louis nods in acknowledgement and finishes his wine, still watching him. Harry remains sitting on the countertop, humming the melodies of the songs playing, gazing at Louis from across the kitchen with his bedroom eyes, gaze hazy and lustful.

 

When his glass is empty, Louis cross the wood floor and settles himself in the space between Harry’s legs. He kisses him softly on the lips, just on the surface, not enough to add tongue. While intimacy with Harry is phenomenal, it’s not his goal for tonight.

 

“Tell me about these,” he asks eventually, stroking the soft skin of Harry’s bare inner thighs. The red, circular blemishes. The tender skin. Some of the scars are newer, and that scares Louis.

 

“I already told you. My dad burned me when I was a kid.”

 

“Have you ever done it to yourself?” He’s worried of the answer, even though he already knows what it is.

 

You see, the thing about being in love with the most self-destructive person on earth is that it _hurts_ so fucking much but there’s nothing Louis can do about it. No matter what he says or does, nothing will magically heal Harry or make him love himself the way Louis loves him. The only person who can save Harry is Harry himself. That’s all. It’s the truth.

 

“Yes,” Harry whispers, quiet and soft. As if the world isn’t crashing down around them.

 

“Since you’ve met me?” He already knows. He tries to think of Harry with a cigarette in his hands, flicking open Louis’ lighter and touching it to the end until it glows crimson. He tries to think of Harry pressing it to his skin with the intention of hurting himself, of creating a scar that will maybe fade, but never truly go away.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?” He has to ask.

 

“Because it hurts.”

 

“What hurts?” Just for clarification. Just to be clear. Just to give him the space to speak, if he wants.

 

 _Being alive,_ Harry might say. _Being me. Just being._ He doesn’t. He says, “Burning myself with a cigarette.”

 

“Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

 

Harry laughs, but nothing’s funny. He lets Louis pull him into a hug. For once, he is completely still aside from the steady drumbeat of his heart. Louis is the one who’s shaking.

 

“Because I hate myself,” he says, as if it’s the simplest fact in the world. “Because I want to punish myself. Because I deserve it.”

 

Louis tries to hide his tears in the crook of Harry’s neck, but Harry notices. He pulls Louis back and wipes the tears away with his thumbs, kissing all over his face in the process. He swings his legs back and forth before wrapping them around Louis’ back and taking another sip of his wine. Louis cries into his shoulder, too afraid to let go. This is exactly what he knew and what he feared, all at once.

 

“Why do you hate yourself?” he asks, unable to keep the crying sound out of his voice.

 

Harry is surprisingly patient with him. “I’m an awful person, Lou. And every day I’m just waiting for you to see what I see.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The next evening, they’re lounging in the family room after Jay, Lottie, and Fizzy left to catch their flight back home.

 

Louis thanks Harry for dealing with his family and Harry waves him off, smiling and saying it was his pleasure. Right now they’re surrounded in wrapping paper from exchanging Christmas gifts.

 

Jay got Louis the pots and pans he’s been complaining about missing, and a set of regal, fluffy bath towels. She also got Harry a bag full of items he’ll need when living on his own. It’s something a mother would do for her son, and it makes Louis warm to think that Jay feels that way about Harry. He still can’t get her conversation with Harry from nights ago out of his head.

 

“Will you tell me why you stopped singing?” Harry requests, out of the blue.

 

“You already know the story.”

 

“Not all of it.”

 

Louis hasn’t talked to anyone about losing his job, really, except the time when they barely knew each other and Harry still held him and he bawled his eyes out and fell asleep on the couch. He supposes Harry deserves the full story.

 

So he tells it to him, piece by piece, bringing it all together.

 

“And you haven’t tried to get a gig anywhere else?”

 

“What happened didn’t just stop me from singing,” Louis admits. “It stopped me from _wanting_ to sing. I haven’t felt like it in a while.”

 

“I’m sorry, Lou.”

 

“It’s alright, babe. Don’t worry about it. I’m over it now.”

 

“You shouldn’t have to be, though. It shouldn’t have happened.”

 

“I know. It’s alright.” He truly feels alright now, even if he did lose his love for singing along the way.

 

“Are you really sure you don’t feel like singing anymore?”

 

“I’m sure, H. But I’ll tell you if that ever changes.”

 

For a moment he thinks about their roadtrip, how they sang together in the car. How they screamed the lyrics of shitty pop songs until their voices went hoarse. It had felt freeing.

 

“Please do.” Harry sits quietly for a few moments before standing up abruptly. “I’m going to get my guitar,” he announces, leaving the room.

 

Louis pets Clifford while he’s gone, feeling lighter now that he’s gotten everything off his chest. He never thought telling Harry all about it, how it happened and what happens now as a result of it, would make him feel so much better.

 

When Harry comes back, he starts strumming chords on his guitar. Louis knows he’s trying to get him to sing along, but he doesn’t give in, even though there’s a tiny part of him that wants to, just to see Harry smile.

 

Harry sings instead, and Louis likes it, listening to the man he loves sing songs he’s never heard before.

 

“Sing with me,” Harry urges, still strumming.

 

“I don’t know the song.”

 

“Choose something you know, then. Anything.”

 

Louis shakes his head. Maybe someday. Not today.

 

Harry shrugs, and sings by himself the rest of the night. Louis sits next to him, watching the movement of his lips and his fingers strumming the guitar strings, and falls deeper in love.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Four days later, a day after the new year begins, Harry signs the lease on his new apartment.

 

He’s been searching all week, and is insanely relieved to have finally found one. He calls his mother to tell her the news and sort out the financials, and when he gets off the phone, his face is pale as a ghost’s.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

Harry doesn’t answer. He crawls onto Louis’ lap and curls up on him. When Louis looks into his eyes, he finds they’re far away.

 

Harry hasn’t dissociated in a long while, but that doesn’t mean Louis has forgotten what to do. He holds Harry for a while, stroking his hair and whispering basic facts to him: _It’s Tuesday, January 2nd. You’re in our living room, sitting on the couch. Your name is Harry, and you’re twenty-one years old. My name is Louis._

 

He nods along like he’s taking the information in but not processing it. Louis leaves shim briefly, for just a second, to run to his bedroom and grab the stuffed animal. He sits back down on the couch, letting Harry lean on him, and hands him the bunny.

 

“I’m alright,” he whispers in a detached voice. Louis can tell just from the look in his eyes that he isn’t alright.

 

Louis hums and strokes Harry’s back, giving him a makeshift massage. He doesn’t mind sitting in silence for a while, as Harry drifts off. He just wonders where Harry goes, when his eyes turn a little bit foggy, his movements sluggish. He wonders what Harry thinks of, and if his mind is peaceful. If it doesn’t hurt so bad when he’s away. Every time he drops back down to reality, Louis wants to ask, but he never does.

 

When Harry dissociates, he turns completely compliant, willing to let anyone do whatever they want to him. Louis uses this as a mechanism to coax Harry into bed, to sleep it off. Sometimes sleep is the only remedy.

 

Around midnight he wakes up from a nightmare, one Louis didn’t hear. He had been surprisingly quiet. He pads into Louis’ room with his bare feet on the wood floor and crawls into bed with him.

 

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

 

Louis nods, letting Harry snuggle up against his chest. He rests his chin atop his head, deciding to ask. “Do you remember much when you dissociate?”

 

“Sometimes. I can always- I mean, I always know what’s happening, it’s just doesn’t feel real. And sometimes I forget as soon as I come out of it, like the time you first saw me. With the pole. But I always remember you taking care of me.”

 

Louis smiles at him, trying to ease his nerves. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

 

“I like when you hold my hand,” Harry admits. “And when you pet my hair.”

 

Louis smiles at him, feeling something tugging on his heart strings. “I’ll have to do that more often, then.”

 

“Yes, please. Can you do it right now?”

 

He tangles his hands in his hair and runs his fingers through the curls like he’s done so many times before. It has become a soothing gesture for both of them, the physical touch calming Harry, the methodical movement calming Louis.

 

“What did you dream about?”

 

“Do you really want to know?”

 

“Always.”

 

Harry fiddles with the front of Louis’ sleeping shirt, twisting the fabric nervously in his hands. “It was very vivid. I don’t usually have vivid dreams, or if I do, they don’t make much sense.”

 

“But this one made sense?”

 

Harry nods. “It did.”

 

“What was it?”

 

“Roman, I think. I couldn’t see his face. But it felt like him.”

 

“Do you dream about him a lot?”

 

“Kind of. I don’t know.” He sighs, pressing his nose against the column of Louis’ throat. “He raped me.”

 

Louis’ gut clenches painfully and he feels sick instantly. “What?”

 

“In my dream. He raped me. It was… It was very distinct. More distinct than in real life. I said no very clearly, and he did it anyways. Usually in my dreams, I don’t have a chance to say anything.”

 

If Louis was a psychologist, or perhaps a dream analyst, he would say that maybe this is a good sign. Perhaps it means that Harry’s psyche feels more in control, that he has more control over his own life, and it’s translated into his dreams by finally having a voice to say no. He isn’t there yet, not completely recovered, as indicated by the fact that he said no and it didn’t work. But it’s progress. It’s something.

 

Louis isn’t a psychologist though. He’s not a dream analyst. He’s still stuck on the fact that Harry dreamed of Roman _raping_ him.

 

“Lou?”

 

“Yes, love?” he asks absentmindedly. His fingers are twiddling with the fabric of Harry’s shirt, smoothing it out over and over again in mindless repetition. The familiarity of it soothes him, as does the warmth of Harry’s skin beneath his touch.

 

“Is it wrong?”

 

“Is what wrong, darling?”

 

“Is it wrong if I liked it?”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Five days later, Harry has officially moved out.

 

They spent the past few days boxing his belongings and carting them off to his new apartment, which is admittedly very nice. It’s a loft apartment, which is essentially just one big room with an upper loft as the bedroom, and one small bathroom. Given the location, it was a bit pricey, but Harry’s rich parents are the ones paying for it.

 

When Harry was packing up his art supplies, he let Louis help him. This means Louis got to see a lot of Harry’s art for the first time.

 

By the time he entered Harry’s bedroom, almost everything was packed up aside from a few piles of miscellaneous items, and a stack of canvases in the corner.

 

“I need to show you something,” Harry had announced, crossing the room to the canvases. He flipped them over to show him. And when Louis looked, he saw… himself.

 

“Harry… what’s this?” he had breathed, staring in awe. He knew what it was. Harry had painted him and drawn him a million times over. At least, that’s what it felt like.

 

At the end of the day, he walked back to his own bedroom with his arms full of art pieces that featured himself. At least twenty different representations of Louis Tomlinson, painted and drawn in beautiful light, all made by Harry. Apparently he had been wasting his time making art of Louis, and that’s why he always struggled to turn in his real assignments on time.

 

Louis’ heart felt so full, it could burst.

 

Now he’s sitting in his painfully empty apartment, no Harry in sight, and his heart feels just that. Empty.

 

He has an empty bedroom now. He should probably rent it out to someone who needs it. But he only wants Harry. He doesn’t want anyone else to fill the goddamn room. Doesn’t that just suck?

 

Only three hours after he dropped Harry off at his new place and helped him unload the last of his belongings, his phone lights up with a text.

 

_miss u :(_

 

He stares at it for a while, long enough for another to pop up.

 

_come over??_

 

And then,

 

_bring snacks <3 <3 <3 _

 

So he ends up at Harry’s new apartment for the second time that day, this time dressed down in what are essentially his pajamas, holding a bag of food and candy from the drugstore he stopped at on his walk over. Harry opens the door with enthusiasm and attacks him in a warm hug.

 

“I missed you so much,” he whines, dragging Louis inside.

 

“It’s only been a few hours,” he laughs, but yeah, he gets it. He feels the same way.

 

“I know, but we’re always around each other. It’s weird being away.”

 

Louis follows him to the kitchen corner of his apartment, which is separated from the rest of the room by an artsy screen. The whole place smells of brownies and when he sees the kitchen counter he understands why.

 

“I bake when I’m sad,” Harry explains, shoving a platter of brownies into Louis’ hands. There are also three batches of cookies cooling on a rack by the stove.

 

“Don’t be sad,” Louis soothes, giving Harry a side hug for good measure. “I’m right here.”

 

“I know. Thank you. You’re lovely.”

 

They end up climbing up the ladder to get to the loft, passing the food up precariously. There isn’t much space, the ceiling is low, and Louis is sad to see Harry is still sleeping on just a mattress on the floor. It’s a cute space despite it all, covered in pillows and fuzzy blankets, illuminated by fairy lights hanging from the walls.

 

Louis situates their snacks while Harry sets up a movie on his laptop. They curl up in the mess of blankets and spend the night gorging themselves with sweets until they fall asleep.

 

Louis doesn’t mean to spend the night, but shit happens.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“Tell me about Roman.”

 

Harry grins. “He’s an asshole.”

 

It’s 11:30 at night and they’re sitting on one of the comfortable couches in the twenty-four hour bookstore Louis took Harry too so many months ago when he couldn’t sleep. A surprisingly fair amount of people mill around, searching for books. A few workers are busy reorganizing and straightening out the spines.

 

“Do you still love him?”

 

“A little. Not really. I only loved him because he would have sex with me, and he’s hot. Like really fucking hot.”

 

Louis doesn’t feel jealous of such a despicable human being, he does not. No way in hell. “Is that all?”

 

“He was sweet at first. I mean, he was always sweet. I’m sure he still is.” At the look Louis is giving him, he hedges to explain, “He took care of me. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he did. He took care of me. He gave me what I asked for.”

 

“And what did you ask for?”

 

“Someone to be rough with me. Someone to love me above anyone else. Someone to get jealous over me. Obviously, those are all the things that made him abusive, so. Don’t look at me like that,” Harry laughs, “Of course I know he’s abusive.”

 

“Then why did you stay with him?”

 

Now would be a prime opportunity for Harry to make a joke about Louis’ insistence at gaining information from him, maybe something like _what, is this Twenty Questions?_ Instead, he sighs. “It’s hard to explain to someone who has never felt it before. Part of it is that I thought I could change him, but most of it is that I just didn’t care. Is that wrong?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“He raped me,” Harry says. “Multiple times.” It’s conversational. Apathetic.

 

Louis doesn’t like it. He keeps his mouth shut, and gives Harry the room he needs to speak.

 

Because they’re in a bookstore, he has to be quiet. Besides, they’re are people around who could easily overhear if he raises his voice too much, and this isn’t a conversation for strangers to listen in on.

 

“The first time it happened, I was shaking so hard I couldn’t even get my key in the lock. Luckily Liam came home and let me in,” he laughs. “I was in shock. Liam knew something was wrong but he didn’t figure it out. I wasn’t any help. I just sat on the couch for an hour or two, wondering what the hell happened, before I decided to take a shower. A very long, very hot shower.”

 

Louis leans into his side. He loves the sound of his voice but he hates the words Harry’s saying, hates what they mean.

 

“Liam had to drag me out,” Harry continues, sounding as though he’s lost in the story, taken back to the moment when it first occurred. “The water had burned my skin, not badly, just enough to leave it read and sore. I didn’t want him to touch me; I didn’t let him. I think I scared him when I yelled at him, because he left me alone after that. I still feel bad about that.”

 

“Harry…”

 

“Do you want to hear the story?”

 

“Only if you want to tell me,” Louis reasoned. “Only if you’re okay with telling me.”

 

“I am. It’s alright.” He scooches down so Louis can wrap his arm around his shoulder. He snuggles into his side. “I’ve never told anyone before, but you make me want to. You make me feel safe enough to say it out loud.”

 

“That’s good,” Louis chokes, overcome. “I’m glad.”

 

“So,” Harry continues,“as it turns out, I did the worst possible thing I could do after being raped.”

 

Every time he says that word, it sends a chill down Louis’ spine. It’s powerful, though. It shouldn’t be censored.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I showered.” He laughs bitterly. “I looked it up a while later, and read what to do, and showering is exactly what they say not to do. The point is to preserve the evidence, so you can call the police and they’ll be able to collect DNA samples and everything. When I read that, I was so freaked out, but now I’m kind of thinking, what would that have proven? That I had sex with my boyfriend? Great, that’s exactly what I needed,” he says sarcastically. “So it doesn’t matter, in the end, but like. Still.”

 

“I can’t even imagine…”

 

“I know, right? I mean, the last thing you want to do in that situation is just sit there in filth and feel your… your rapist all over you. That’s why I took a shower; I had to get rid of the feeling of him. Of course, it never really goes away, does it.”

 

The way he says it, it sounds like he’s trying hard to get the word out. Rapist. Louis is surprised he’s even acknowledging it.

 

“How are you… How are you able to talk about this?”

 

Harry rests his head on Louis’ shoulder, his soft curls tickling his neck. “I’ve been seeing a therapist recently.”

 

Louis gapes, eyes wide, mouth open. “Really? Since when?”

 

“Since the first night I slept in your bed, and I- and I…” he trails off. “I’ve been going two or three times a week, for a while now. My insurance doesn’t cover it, really, but I worked something out with David—he’s my psychologist—and we’ve made it work. He’s really great. I hate him sometimes, because he pushes me a lot, but he’s great.”

 

Tears begin to well up in Louis’ eyes and he fears they’ll spill over like a tidal wave of emotions. He can remember the first night Harry slept in his bed very clearly, because it ended horribly, with urine-soaked bed sheets and a suicidal Harry.

 

“Wh- Why did you go? And how did I not find out?” Louis asks, unable to contain the tears now. A few slip down his cheeks but he brushes them away hastily, feeling stupid for being the first one to cry. He hardly ever cried before Harry came into his life, and now he’s an absolute mess. He doesn’t regret a single thing, though.

 

“I can’t tell you, yet,” Harry whispers, but Louis hears it all the same. _I went for you,_ he says but doesn’t say. _I wanted to go for you. To get better, for you._ So they could sleep in the same bed without Harry’s nightmares waking them up. So they could have sex someday without Harry going catatonic or freaking out on him. Could that be the reason?

 

There’s something wrong about that, about healing for the sake of someone else. Louis doesn’t know how to verbalize it, so he remains quiet.

 

“I went during studio time, most days, so that’s probably why you didn’t notice. I talked to my professor about it. And it works out, because David lets me do art when I’m in his office. He tells me it’s a positive coping mechanism.”

 

“Oh, that’s really nice.” He’s heard of art therapy before, but only in theory. Never in practice.

 

“It kind of sucks, though, because a lot of the pieces are too dark to show people.”

 

“You should show me, sometime,” Louis whispers. He wants to know all of Harry, even the darkest parts, the pieces of him that are hidden so deep for good reason. The scary fragments, the ones that would make anyone worry. Louis wants to see it all, and he wants to show Harry his own horrors too.

 

“Maybe,” he agrees. “You’ve already seen some of them, though.”

 

“I have?”

 

“The ones of you. The sketches. I did those with David.”

 

Louis’ heart feels like it’s breaking in the best way. In fact, it feels like someone has taken a knife and has cracked open his chest, letting all the love he feels spill out and smother the world. In a good way.

 

“We talk about you sometimes.”

 

“You do?”

 

Harry nods slowly, taking Louis’ hand. “He says you’re good for me.”

 

It’s a lot to process, but Louis is glad. It makes him feel better to have outside confirmation, even if Harry is just lying to him to make him feel better or to seduce him or to do whatever it is he’s trying to do. He likes the thought of being good for Harry, of helping him through the dark. He likes the thought of them being there for each other, of being able to lean on each other when they need it. Supporting each other. A practical kind of love, love that works.

 

There’s still something nagging at him, though. “I have a question.”

 

“Go for it.”

 

“You said what happened with Roman occurred multiple times.”

 

“I did say that.”

 

“Why did you go back?”

 

“At first… At first I- I didn’t really know it was rape. I didn’t know why my body was reacting the way it did… Why I felt so much guilt and shame, and embarrassment. When he… When he did it the first time, I went through something David calls “frozen fright.” It’s when you freeze up and are unable to move because your body goes into survival mode since it’s in a life threatening situation, and it thinks the best option is to play dead. At the time, I hadn’t known why I froze up, but just that I let it happen, I let him do whatever he wanted to me. And I thought that made it my fault.”

 

“So… So you had sex with him before, but this time was different?”

 

“Right. Most of the times before that, I had waned it, or at least let it happen in some way. But this time I was sore and tired and I just wanted to cuddle with him. He never wanted to fucking cuddle. He always wanted more. I told him I wanted to rest for a little bit and he didn’t listen, and when he- When he pushed in, I started crying and said it hurt and that I wanted to stop, and he told me… He told me, ‘Open your legs more and relax and maybe it won’t hurt so much.’”

 

“Harry…”

 

“Let me finish. At first I didn’t know it was rape. I just went home and shook so hard I dropped my keys and couldn’t get in until Liam came home. And then I took a shower to try to get him off me but it didn’t work. I felt so sick and nauseous when I tried to go to sleep but I thought it was just the aftermath of normal sex, because sometimes he made me feel like that even when I did consent…”

 

“If you didn’t think it was- that, what did you think it was?”

 

“Mostly I just thought it was normal relationship sex. Just like any other time when I wasn’t really in the mood but he persuaded me to do it anyways. I mean, you know me, and like, I’m pretty hypersexual a lot of times, so I didn’t really feel like I had a right to say no. Because I was always so easy for it. So then when I wasn’t in the mood it didn’t seem fair, because he expected me to always want it. And sometimes I did. Sometimes I still do. You know that.”

 

“So you kept going back to him?”

 

“He was my boyfriend—of course I did. What else was I supposed to do? I loved him. I didn’t know he had coerced me into anything. It all felt normal, except for the fact that it didn’t.”

 

“So then what happened?”

 

“Well, um, I continued dating him. Everyone had thought we had broken up because he, um, he cheated on me with this girl, but no one knew that he was cheating, because he just made it seem like we weren’t a thing anymore so he wouldn’t look bad. But I- I still loved him, and I had always been easy for him, so I begged him to stay with me and he said okay but only if he could have me any way he wanted. So that was- that was the rest of it. Sometimes I consented but most of the time I was coerced, because I really didn’t want to do it, but I was afraid he would leave me if I didn’t let him fuck me in the exact way he wanted. And I didn’t know it until David told me, but that counts as like, manipulation and coercion, which is a form of rape, and David tells me to call it rape because it reminds me that Roman is bad for me, and that even if I do decide to forgive him, I should stay away from him.”

 

Among the mountainous amount of emotions swirling through Louis’ mind right now, he feels an exorbitant amount of rage towards Roman. Louis is a passive person who has never really felt true aggression until now. He wants to hunt Roman down, wants to grab him by the neck and scream in his face before hurting him so badly, he won’t be able to do as much as lift a finger in Harry’s direction. Louis wants this so badly, he could boil into nothing with the anger of it all.

 

“What about the bruises?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“How did you get them?”

 

“He, um. Sometimes he would be rough with me? And like, part of me likes that. Like, I think you know I like really rough sex. But that was… That was during the time when I was afraid he was going to leave me for someone else, which he did, so.” Harry laughs bitterly. “So David figured out this cycle that I go through, which I’m sure you’ve noticed. Basically, it starts with something triggering me, and then I get really insecure, which turns into me hating myself and showing… self-destructive tendencies, like turning suicidal. Or drinking too much. Or having dangerous sex. So I’d get drunk and I’d go find Roman, and he was always happy to fuck me really hard, call me a dirty slut or whatever, and beat the shit out of me. I think he liked that I was so willing. That I let him do whatever he wanted, even if it meant hurting me.”

 

Louis is quiet for a while. He thinks of all the times Harry came home covered in bruises blossoming all over his body, and it makes him sick. “Did you have sex with him every time?”

 

“Yes,” Harry answers softly. There’s a  sad expression on his face, like he feels bad for Louis. “I’m sorry.”

 

Louis shakes his head, eyes wide. “There’s no reason to apologize, Harry.”

 

“No- There is. I know I’ve said a lot of things to you that weren’t very nice, especially in the beginning when I hardly knew you, and didn’t trust you. Over time, obviously, I saw how amazing you are and how much you cared for me… How much you still care for me… Even knowing I’m a mess.”

 

“Don’t say that, Harry, don’t say you’re a mess.” Louis’ hands are shaking, and Harry covers them with his own, holding them still. Louis is grateful but he still feels bad for not being the one to comfort Harry. He wants to protect him, wants to keep him safe, wants to love him always. In fact he just wants to go home and crack his chest open and let Harry crawl inside his heart to stay there forever. But he has one more question. “Why did he leave you?”

 

“He always… He always knew I was completely, utterly worthless, but just worth enough to be used as a warm hole to fuck, I guess. But then one time I went to him and he hurt me so badly without even having sex with me first, and for the first time he said something about my scars, and he took his cigarette and burned me too.”

 

Louis waits, still and silent, for Harry to continue.

 

“He said he wouldn’t ever fuck me again, because after a while I had stopped responding, and I would just lie there and take it. ‘Frozen fright,’ what David calls it. It’s also called rape paralysis, I think. When you just can’t move. When your body is playing dead.”

 

Louis remembers that quote he read a while ago, the one that went:

 

_He wants to know why sometimes in the face of conflict I neither fight nor flee, but instead go disconcertingly mute, eyes locked ahead like some sad dead thing looking off into the empty of its own future._

 

“He said… He said, I wasn’t even a good ashtray, that’s how worthless I was. Because I would scream when he burned me, and he did it because that was the only way he could get me to scream anymore. Because I’d only ever shut up when he was shoving it in me, and he got bored of it.”

 

“Oh Harry…”

 

“That’s all. I don’t think I have any secrets left to tell you, except that my father used to hit me all the goddamn time, and my mother would throw things at me when she got emotional, which was often. But I’m assuming you figured that out. And that I’m adopted, and I have no idea why they even adopted me except for the fact that they wanted to use a baby as an accessory to make themselves look more accomplished and fulfilled in front of their frigid, uncaring friends. They don’t love me; there isn’t even a question or possibility of them loving me. I’ve known this ever since I even knew what love is, which now that I’m thinking about it I’m not sure I know anymore. I also don’t know who my real mother is, and I don’t care to find out, because she would be horrified of who I’ve become, and I feel like I don’t even deserve to know.” He takes a deep breath, staring into Louis’ eyes and breathing it out on his face. “So, yeah. That’s all my shitty fucking goddamn trauma. That’s why I’m so fucked up.”

 

“Harry…”

 

“I’ve never said all of that before, by the way, not even to David. He never… He never pressures me into saying anything, really, which I like about him. But he did say to tell it to you whenever I felt ready. I don’t think I feel ready but it’s too late. I just had to get it out. I’m sorry for telling such a disgusting, disturbing story. I’m sorry you have to deal with my baggage now. It’s not too late to leave, if you want.”

 

“I don’t want to leave,” Louis murmurs, eyes wide with all the information he’s expected to take in right now. He really needs a week-long nap. He can’t even begin to imagine how Harry must feel. “Not unless you ask me to.”

 

Harry relaxes against his side. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

“I love you, you know that right? It’s really amazing that you just told me all of that. I’m really proud of you. I can’t even imagine how hard that must be, to say it out loud. To live through it. You’re so strong, Harry, really. I hope you believe that.”

 

Harry nods and Louis gets the feeling that Harry doesn’t quite believe him yet, but that’s fine. They have time. Louis will have a million opportunities to get him to believe it.

 

“Alright, babe, I think we can both agree we’re done with the depressing shit, yeah?”

 

“For sure,” Harry agrees, snuggling closer. “Can we go pick out books and read them together?”

 

“Of course, love. Anything you want.”

 

Half an hour later, they’re back on the couch, Harry’s head in Louis’ lap. They’ve had a bit of quiet time to read in companionable silence. Louis keeps losing track of the words on the page in front of him and instead gets lost in the green of Harry’s eyes, or the furrowed concentration on his face as he flips through a journal.

 

“Lou, listen to this: _As if I had never known, the radiant center of loving only you, who have only one body, you alone, but so alone. Your solitude frightens me, fortunately you are still sleeping. I would like to rock you to put you to sleep all the time.”_

 

“That’s lovely, but sad,” Louis hums. “What is it from?”

 

“It’s from a series of love letters from a guy named Jacques Derrida, to his love, who is unknown. In another letter, he describes wanting to be cremated when he dies, so his lover can eat his ashes with every meal, and fall in love with herself. Like, by literally consuming the man she loves.”

 

“That’s so dark.”

 

“It is. But so romantic, too. I want… I want someone to love me like that,” Harry quietly admits.

 

 _Someone does love you like that,_ Louis wants to tell him. He doesn’t know how to say it without making himself sound crazy. Eventually he settles on, “I love you a lot.”

 

Harry peers up at him, like he’s asking, _Are you sure? Are you really sure?_ Like he’s testing him.

 

“So much,” Louis adds, looking away.

 

“I think you make my nightmares better,” Harry says, out of the blue.

 

“Really?”

 

“Mhm. David says it’s because sometimes having someone I trust near me is like, a calming presence. And that’s what you are to me—a calming presence. You always make me feel better, even when I do have a bad dream, but when I’m with you, most of the time I don’t.”

 

Louis is always cautious of falling down the hole of romanticizing mental illness, and trying to save others by loving them. He knows he can’t save Harry just by loving him. In fact he knows he can’t save Harry at all. Healing is up to Harry, and no one else. It’s his responsibility. Of course, he can get help from others. He isn’t on his own or completely alone.

 

But loving Harry doesn’t hurt. Harry deserves love, and Louis wants to give it to him. Louis wants to give everything to him, everything good in the world. He wants to take away all the bad.

 

“Basically, what I’m saying is, will you come home with me tonight? And sleep over, so I don’t have to be alone?”

 

They’ve kept pushing off their first date due to being too busy finding a new apartment and moving and everything. They haven’t had sex since the morning after Louis’ family showed up, and while Louis burns with desire most of the time, he’s more than happy to wait a while for the sake of making it very special and romantic for Harry. He wants to do it the right way, now that they’ve finally communicated and figured things out.

 

“Of course, baby,” he ends up saying anyways. Whenever Harry needs him, he’ll be there.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


“I write songs about you.”

 

“What?”

 

“And poems, too. That’s what’s in this journal.”

 

Louis doesn’t know how to respond to that. He kisses Harry on the forehead, and says, “That’s really, really sweet of you.”

 

“I’m not ready to show you, but like, I will. Someday. When the songs are finished and stuff. So I can sing them to you.”

 

Louis doesn’t know what to do with him. He kisses him on the forehead again. “You’re too sweet for me.”

 

“I’m really excited for our date tonight.”

 

“Me too. Speaking of, I should probably let you go so we can both get ready. I’ll be back here around six, yeah?”

 

Harry pouts at the mention of him leaving, but otherwise behaves. “Yeah, alright. Don’t be late.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Two hours later, Louis knocks on his door with a beautiful bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back.

 

Well, they’re not really hidden, since he had purchased the biggest bouquet he could find, but. The intentions are the same.

 

The door swings open, revealing Harry behind it. “Hi Lou,” he greets shyly, and god does he look beautiful. His hair is curly and slightly damp from the shower, looking effortlessly gorgeous as it drapes across his shoulders. He’s wearing black, dressy, high-waisted trousers that flow when he moves, with a black t-shirt tucked into them, and loafers that poke out from beneath the pants, a tiny little rainbow on each. Louis’ eyes scan over his body, admiring the way the trousers accentuate his waist, and the way the t-shirt hugs his toned body, making his arms look absolutely delicious…

 

His gaze travels up to Harry’s face again and he sees the shy uncertain smile decked out in barely-there pink lip gloss, and shimmery eye shadow the color of champagne around his eyes. There’s a blush on his cheeks, although it looks less like makeup and more like a visceral reaction from Louis checking him out.

 

“Hi, love,” Louis greets finally, pulling the flowers out from behind his back and gracefully handing them over.

 

The rosiness on his cheeks gets brighter. “These are for me?” he squeaks, not even looking at the flowers, only looking at Louis.

 

Louis nods, giving Harry a moment to scan over them in awe. He had picked out the biggest, prettiest, most colorful bouquet they offered, and it hadn’t disappointed. Harry leaves him for a moment to set them in a vase filled with water, and then he rejoins him at the door.

 

“Am I dressed appropriately for where we’re going?”

 

“Yes, you look gorgeous. Shall we?”

 

They had out into the evening air, bracing themselves for the cold. They walk quietly for a while, enjoying each other’s company, before Harry adds, “You do too, by the way. You always look great.”

 

Louis thanks him with a smile on his face, and continues guiding Harry through the city. Their first stop is a restaurant Harry hasn’t been to before, and Louis was at a few days ago just to check and see if it was acceptable for a first date with the most wonderful man he had ever met.

 

It’s a themed restaurant called Paint, which offers an extensive dinner menu and many different drinks. Each table is equipped with blank canvases, hundreds of paints, and various brushes. The idea is to paint during dinner, which seems like a bit much to ask, but the reviews online were great. He knows, of course, that Harry will love it.

 

When they enter and the hostess brings them to their reserved table, Harry’s eyes are wide in awe. He runs his fingers over the brushes, surprisingly high quality and well taken care of. “Lou, this is… This is really cool…”

 

“Yeah? I’m glad you like it.”

 

After they order drinks, Harry declares he knows what he wants to paint. He puts one of the given aprons on first to preserve his outfit, and Louis does the same. He has Harry smile for a picture from across the table, holding up his blank canvas and his paintbrush, looking like an artistic angel. even with the dim lighting, the picture turns out absolutely adorable, and Louis considers making it his phone lockscreen.

 

They eat and paint all throughout dinner, talking about anything and everything. It isn’t really like a first date since they know so much about each other already, but that’s one of the reasons why it goes so smoothly: they know enough about each other to be aware of how to make good, easy conversation.

 

“Are you ready to see it?” Harry asks, about to flip over his canvas. They have been keeping their art a secret for the entirety of dinner, so it would be more exciting when they revealed the canvases at the end.

 

Louis looks down at his canvas, thinking it’s pretty good for someone who doesn’t know how to paint at all. He had no faith in himself to make something realistic, so he went the abstract route, drawing a ton of tiny, repetitive designs in a rainbow of Harry’s favorite colors. “Yeah, sure, I’m ready.”

 

They flip their canvases over at the same time and of course Louis is blown away by the beautiful art Harry shows him.

 

“Oh my god, is that us? Harry, I can’t believe you painted us having sex,” Louis groans, smiling so wide he might actually die.

 

Harry cackles loudly, handing Louis the canvas. On it, the distinct features of Louis’ back, with Harry’s arms wrapped around it, fingers scratching down the skin. Christ. Louis pulls it towards him and immediately covers it up so no one else can see their private moment. He now understands the women giggling at Harry’s canvas when he was in the process of painting it.

 

“Awww, Lou, I love yours. It’s so cute. Beautiful.”

 

Louis blushes at the praise, feeling a bit inadequate compared to Harry’s obvious artistic abilities. Hary claims he’ll hang it up in his room, somewhere he can see it every day, and Louis doesn’t really believe him but that’s okay. They finish their wine and then head out into the night, on their way to their next destination.

 

When Louis found out it was open to the public late into the evening tonight for some sort of charity event, Louis jumped on the opportunity. He knew immediately that it would be something Harry would love.

 

He’s right, of course, as Harry sees the sign for the botanical gardens, and nearly knocks Louis into a snow bank with how excited he is.

 

They spend the next three hours perusing through the beautiful indoor gardens. Harry absolutely glows the entire time, giving Louis these big, meaningful looks every time they make eye contact. He’s absolutely ethereal surrounded by exotic flowers, and birds that flutter to and fro. Louis wants to take a million pictures of him, get them printed the size of movie posters, and plaster them everywhere, so the world can appreciate his beauty.

 

It makes him feel special, getting to see Harry like this. Getting to have Harry like this. Not many people have the pleasure of knowing Harry and Louis is one of the only people on earth who knows him intimately. That’s special. That’s worth something. It makes his heart swell with the pride of love. He wants to tell every stranger they pass that Harry is _his._

 

At the end of the night, they walk back through the city to Harry’s apartment. Harry forgot gloves, so Louis holds his hands in his own to keep them warm.

 

“Are you alright here on your own?” Louis asks, once they’re at his door, procrastinating saying goodbye.

 

“I think so, but like. You’re welcome inside, if you want to like, hang out…”

 

Louis kisses him on the cheek before heading inside, pulling Harry with him. The door closes behind them and he makes sure to lock it for safety’s sake.

 

“So, what do you want to do?”

 

“Um, two things,” Harry supplies. “First, I was thinking of adopting a kitten, because I’ve been kind of lonely here by myself-”

 

“Aww, Harry,” Louis coos, feeling bad for being the reason Harry feels lonely. They spend so much time together but it still isn’t enough. It feels as though they regressed in their relationship by Harry moving out. “I’m sorry, I feel really bad about that. But yes, I think that’s a great idea. You should definitely adopt a cat.”

 

Harry smiles gently at im. “Great. I’d love your input, so maybe we could go to the shelter together sometime soon?”

 

“Whenever you want. Now what was the second thing?”

 

“Oh.” Harry has the decency to blush and look bashful, but Louis can see the glint in his green eyes. “I was thinking maybe we could change into comfy clothes and then make out on the couch for a while…”

 

“That-” Louis licks his lips. “That could be arranged.”

 

In terms of “first” dates, it’s one of the better ones.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Everything is great. For about two weeks.

 

Louis and Harry go to the animal shelter and pick out a cat for Harry. He ends up falling for a disabled kitten who’s missing an eye, due to an injury on her face that became infected. A woman found her beneath her car and brought her to the vet, willing to pay whatever she needed to save her. Three cat surgeries later, and the kitty is as good as new, at least with only one eye.

 

Harry names her Sugarplum. He alternates between calling her Sugar, Plum, Sugarplum, and other names like Fluffy Baby and Prettiest Girl in the Whole World.

 

It’s too cute for words. Sometimes, Louis has to look away, especially during moments when Harry is asleep on the couch and Sugarplum is curled up in a boxcar position on his chest, resting the top of her head against his chin. Or when Harry walks around his apartment with the kitten resting on his shoulder. Or when he and Louis are in bed together and she jumps up onto the mattress, prancing towards them and curling up to create a group cuddle.

 

Another development is the beginning of the Spring semester, which comes too soon. Louis’ classes are difficult but through his years of college, he’s learned how to deal with it without killing himself. Harry has a big sculpting project to work on, which keeps him at the studio most nights, working with various types of clay until his hands are numb from overuse.

 

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, either, because it means Louis can stop at a coffee shop on the way to the studio to surprise his almost boyfriend with a late-night treat and maybe even a bit of kissing.

 

Sometimes it turns into a bit more than that, too. The first time they have sex after deciding to really “date” is actually in the studio.

 

Harry is working a late night and when Louis comes in carrying tea from Starbucks, feeling really good because he found out he aced an exam during his afternoon class, and then when he got home and was listening to music on his phone, he felt the drive to sing. Not much, just a little bit, mumbling along the lyrics to hits from the early 2000’s. Later, he gave his mother a call to catch up, and she was happy because everyone seemed to be happy back home.

 

He sees Harry bent over his lifelike sculpture of a nameless, nude male form with his hands covered in clay. He crosses the otherwise empty studio with footfalls that aren’t as quiet as they could be, because he doesn’t want to startle Harry. He kisses him on the forehead and offers him a towel to wipe of his hands so he can take a sip of his tea.

 

“You’re happy today,” Harry observes, smiling like it’s contagious.

 

Louis tells him about his good day, even adding the part where he sang a little bit to himself when he was alone. Harry smiles at him and listens patiently, exclaiming in excitement when he hears Louis sang a little bit today.

 

“That’s so great, Lou, really. I’m so happy for you.”

 

“Thanks, babe. How was your day, by the way? You look like you’re hard at work. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

 

“Nah, it’s alright, I needed a break anyways. My day was kind of shit but it’s better now that you’re here.”

 

“Aw, such a sweetheart. Why was it shit?”

 

“Eh, just a bunch of stupid stuff. Not really in the mood to talk about it.”

 

“That’s alright.” Louis sets his hands on Harry’s shoulders and begins kneading out the knots. “Wanna relax a little bit, or get back to work?”

 

“Relax, please. Your hands are amazing. Always want them on me.”

 

Louis laughs a little and keeps massaging Harry’s shoulders. “I feel like we could arrange that.”

 

They get a little caught up in the massage, which is quite the cliche but neither one of them really cares. They end up running over to the door to lock it, and then making a spot on the floor which is covered in splotches and spills of paint, long since dried. Louis gets Harry under him, and they kiss hard and fervently. Passion takes over, and their clothes come off without much thought.

 

“Please, please, please,” Harry is begging, his big hands traveling all over Louis’ body, leaving marks of clay on Louis’ skin like a roadmap of everywhere he touches. “Please, I need you so badly…”

 

“Are you alright here, or do you wanna move somewhere else?”

 

“‘M fine, please, just- Let me, please-”

 

Louis pulls away and helps Harry up. “I’m making the executive decision to move somewhere else. I know how sore your back gets.”

 

Harry whines in complaint but otherwise obeys, following Louis compliantly. There aren’t many options in the studio, since it’s made for the creation of art rather than quick messy late-night fucks, but whatever. Their intimacy is art, and he’ll be damned before he denies that simple fact. He and Harry together are beautiful in every way.

 

He finds a bunch of canvas blankets in the closet and throws them on the floor, making a pile that looks a bit like a nest. It’s not the best but it’s softer than the hard, dirty tile, so. He eases Harry down onto the blankets with care and kisses him slow and deep, trying to calm him down. Harry keeps bucking his hips up impatiently, rutting their hard cocks against each other with vigor.

 

“Calm down, love. Be good.”

 

Harry whimpers and then quiets completely, staring up at Louis with big green eyes.

 

They get lost in it from there. Louis opens him with his fingers, making quick work but also making sure he’s thorough. Harry claims to like it when it hurts but lately Louis has had no interest in hurting Harry.

 

After hearing the details about Roman, Louis has been very careful with Harry, especially in terms of consent. He checks in at integral points of the night, asking if he’s alright with everything that’s happening. If Harry finds it annoying or excessive, he doesn’t say anything, just answers with a quiet “yes” each time.

 

Louis wants to fuck him soft and sweet like they’ve never done before but now isn’t the time. He doesn’t know when or even if they’ll ever get to do that, but he doesn’t worry about it now. He has a soft, pliant man beneath him begging to be fucked hard and fast until he can’t remember his name anymore, and Louis is in no position to deny him.

 

“Punish me,” Harry gasps, arching his back so much, it’s no wonder he has back pain. “Punish me, Daddy, I’ve been bad…”

 

Louis raises his eyebrows. It’s a lie; Harry hasn’t been bad at all, and in fact he’s been quite the good boy recently. Sometimes Louis gets worried that his kinks are a result of his trauma, and if that’s the case, is Louis supposed to indulge him? He needs to talk to a specialist about that, to understand if this is something that would help Harry, or hurt him.

 

For now, he supposes, it’s okay to indulge.

 

Still, he isn’t in the mood to be rough.

 

Luckily, there are other ways to punish him.

 

“Hands up,” Louis orders. “Above your head. No touching yourself, or me. If you do, we stop right there, and you don’t get to come. Got it?”

 

Harry whimpers weakly in response, pulling his hands high above his head. His fingers twitch a bit but other than that he complies.

 

“Use your words,” Louis reminds a bit harshly. Harry is better than this, he knows that.

 

“Sorry, Daddy. Yes, I understand.”

 

“Good boy. My other rule is this: you aren’t allowed to come until I do. I control when and how you come. Alright?”

 

“Yes, Daddy.” His eyes look worried, though, so Louis smoothes a hand down his cheek.

 

“Color, Harry?”

 

“Green,” he whispers, even though his eyes are far away. “So, so green, Daddy…”

 

They haven’t really talked about sub-dropping before, which isn’t good. Dropping is a lot like dissociating, only in a sexual setting, and it’s typically but not always desirable and pleasurable. Since they haven’t talked soft and hard limits in an explicit conversation, Louis doesn’t know how far to go. He probably shouldn’t let Harry drop, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

“Are you dropping?” Louis asks. “Answer honestly, love.” They haven’t even really done anything, so it doesn’t make sense.

 

In the BDSM scene, Louis has learned through a bit of research, the term _dropping_ is used more commonly than it should be. The technical definition of a drop occurs after the scene has ended, and is the aftermath of a spike in endorphins and adrenaline during scene.

 

Right now, Harry should still be high on hormones. The drop won’t happen until later, if Louis isn’t careful. He has to be careful.

 

“No, Daddy.”

 

“Alright, little one. Are you close to subspace?”

 

“In it, Daddy.”

 

Louis nods. “Color, again?”

 

“Green.”

 

He waits quietly, mouth pressed into a thin line.

 

“Green, Daddy,” Harry corrects hastily.

 

“Careful, baby. Pay attention.”

 

“Sorry, Daddy.”

 

“Repeat the rules to me one last time.”

 

“No touching, ‘nd no coming. ‘Til you come. You- Uhhh- You control when I come. ‘Nd how.”

 

“Good boy.”

 

Louis pets his hair, deciding he’s done testing him. He can’t believe he has the pleasure about being this close to Harry, has the pleasure of domming him. He’s never really been into BDSM, but who wouldn’t do it for Harry? Harry, who is an absolute earth angel of a man?

 

Blessing his preparedness, he opens a condom and slides it out. The lubricant he carries in his back came in handy too, when he was opening Harry with his fingers. Now, it allows Louis to slide easily inside, turning them into one big panting mess.

 

Louis fucks Harry hard and fast just like he wants. Harry keeps his hands above his head because he’s a good sub who won’t seek out  a punishment on purpose. He just wants to be good for Louis, that’s all.

 

He pulls out before he comes, and pulls the condom off, squeezing the base of his dick to give himself a moment before he lets go.

 

“I wanna come on your face,” Louis pants. “Color?”

 

“Green, green, green,” Harry sobs, writhing but keeping his hands in place as if it’s the last thing he’ll do. “Green, Daddy, so so so green.”

 

So Louis crawls over him and paints his face in ropes of white, getting it all over his pretty pink lips and his soft cheeks and his long black eyelashes… The sight of Harry so debauched and ruined beneath him is absolutely obscene, and if he wasn’t so spent he supposes he would come again just at the image.

 

Harry opens his eyes slowly, come dripping off his eyelashes and down his face, and looks up at Louis pleadingly.

 

He had been planning on finishing his baby with a blowjob, but at the sight of him like this he knows he just can’t bear to tear his eyes away. He jerks Harry off with his hand, paying special attention to the tip which is sensitive and overheated. It allows him to keep his gaze latched onto Harry’s defiled face, gauging his reactions and watching the beauty of absolute pleasure overtake his visage.

 

He makes a mess all over himself, and then he’s covered in both Louis’ come and his own, and it’s almost too much.

 

As Harry comes down, Louis wipes him off with the cleanest rag he can find lying around the studio. He tries to get the come out of Harry’s curls, but ends up just smearing it everywhere.

 

“Louis?”

 

“Yeah, babe?”

 

“That was really good.”

 

“I’m glad, love. It was good for me too.” He smoothes out Harry’s hair, fixing some of the tangles. The BDSM site he was on a few weeks ago said one of the best things to do after a scene is to talk about it. He thinks about a good question and then just goes for it. “What was your favorite part?”

 

“When you… when you had me repeat the rules. I like that. And also when you came, all over my face, and left me like that. I- I like that, like, the dirtiness to it.”

 

“Being corrupted?” Louis asks.

 

“Yeah, kinda. Like, being ruined by you.”

 

Louis nods, understanding. “What about a least favorite?”

 

“Uhhh, using a condom, maybe. I wanna- I wanna feel you in me, for real.”

 

“Hm, alright, love. We’ll talk about that later, yeah? There are some things we have to sort out before we do it bare.”

 

“Okay. I get it.”

 

Louis dresses the both of them, throws away their cold tea, and walks Harry home. By the time they’re inside his apartment, he’s come out of subspace.

 

“Will you be alright alone?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine,” Harry assures, stepping backwards and setting his bag down.

 

Louis stays in the doorway. “Alright, sweet. Well, I’m gonna head home. Love you lots, baby.”

 

“Love you,” Harry echoes, and that’s that.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The bad thing happens only a few days after that.

 

Louis is having a quiet night in when he gets a phone call. No one ever calls him except for Harry, so he doesn’t even check the caller ID before answering. He’s right, so it doesn’t matter.

 

They’ve been calling each other almost every night they’re not physically together for a few weeks now. It’s a nice, comforting habit that makes both of them feel worthy and wanted. They usually talk about random topics and run off on tangents so easily, it’s difficult to figure out where the conversation really began in the first place.

 

Harry tells all about Louis his adventures with Sugarplum and Louis returns with stories of Clifford’s typical antics. They discuss more adult-like subjects such as the content of their courses, or certain philosophies they’ve been thinking a lot about lately. They also sometimes get really deep, debating theories of humanity and the universe itself.

 

Tonight, though, Louis is greeted with the sound of shaky breathing, and the feeling of something bad sinking low in his stomach.

 

“Harry, what’s wrong?” He asks immediately, and it says a lot that his first reaction is to worry.

 

“Lou,” Harry moans, and it’s obvious he’s been crying, and still is, and it’s awful, it breaks Louis’ heart. “Lou can you please- Can you… I’m so scared, Lou… I- it hurts…”

 

Before he’s even done breathing out whatever it is he’s trying to say, Louis has his shoes on and is out the door. He forgot a coat but it doesn’t matter, he’s too numb and keyed up to feel the harsh, biting wind of a January winter in New York.

 

“Where are you, Harry?”

 

“Apartment-” he breathes, voice shaking.

 

“Yours?”

 

“Mine.”

 

Louis starts running. The sidewalk is slippery with snow and ice. He weaves in and out of the crowds of people on his way to Harry’s apartment, knowing the directions now like the back of his hand. “I’m on my way, H. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

 

“I- I… Lou… I can’t- I-”

 

“Are you physically hurt?” Louis asks, chest heaving, the air in his lungs coming out in big exhales. He gets caught up in a group of people and has to detangle himself, running as if through a maze. His mind is a maelstrom of worry about Harry.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, quiet enough that Louis barely hears it over the thrumming of his pulse in his neck.

 

“Alright, baby, I’m coming. I’m almost there. Are you alone? Can you stay on the line with me?”

 

“I’m alone now, yeah,” Harry cries, his first real sentence since he called.

 

 _Now?_ What does he mean, _now?_ Louis charges up the stairs, too impatient to take the elevator. By the time he gets to the fifth floor, he’s breathing so heavily he might collapse. But Harry is in there, and he’s hurt, something is wrong, he doesn’t know what…

 

The door is unlocked when Louis reaches for it. His heart drops to the floor, and he steps inside.

 

“Harry?”

 

The sound of sniffling, or maybe just full out crying, comes from the loft. Louis has no recollection of crossing the apartment or climbing up the ladder. All he knows is that somehow he gets up there and he finally sees Harry.

 

Contrary to the thoughts plaguing his mind on the journey over here, Harry is not covered in burn marks or blood, any more than usual at least.

 

He’s covered in something different. He’s covered in come.

 

“Harry?”

 

There’s a gasp as he realizes for the first time that Louis is here, by his side. “Lou- I’m so- I’m so sorry!”

 

“What’s going on, Harry?” the ceiling isn’t high enough for him to stand, so he has to crouch low, bent at the knees and the waist. He ends up giving up and crawling forward, getting closer to Harry who is completely naked, come-covered, and measily wrapped in the sheets from his bed.

 

Harry just cries and cries and cries. “Help me,” he whimpers, yet he squirms away from Louis’ touch.

 

“What’s wrong? What hurts? What happened?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he wails, and that’s that.

 

Louis does a quick scan of his body for any injury. Even when he pulls the sheets away he doesn’t find anything really, except for the typical scars on his inner thighs, and then… and then the beginnings of bruises forming on his hips. Like someone gripped him there, hard.

 

For one horrifying moment, he thinks they were caused by himself.

 

They haven’t had sex in days, though, or even touched like that in a while.

 

“Harry… what…” He scans over the rest of his body, eyes flitting up to his chest, neck, and face, which are all covered in come. Much like their night in the studio, when Louis… when Louis…

 

 _Christ. Shit. Fuck._ Louis’ eyes widen. There’s no way Harry could’ve done this to himself through masturbation and the pieces are slowly clicking together.

 

“Christ, Harry, what the hell happened?”

 

Harry bursts into tears again and spreads his legs, repeating the phrase, _it hurts. It hurts._

 

“Calm down love, it’s alright,” Louis says, although he’s not sure if it really is alright. “You’re safe now.” But safe from what? “I’m here.” That’s the only certainty. “Was it- Roman?” He has half the mind to ask.

 

“Yes,” Harry gasps, and that’s it. The world splits to pieces and Louis sees red.

 

“Did he- Did he force you?”

 

“No,” Harry moans, crying harder, pulling his body away from Louis who is keeping his distance anyways. “No, no, he just… He showed up, and I invited him in because- Because I- I wanted to,” Harry hiccups, hyperventilating, eyes wild. “And we… He fucked me, because he asked me, and I said yes, and- and… and it hurt, but not how you make it hurt, not in the good way. And then- he left me again, ‘cause, ‘cause that’s what he does, and now I just, I regret it so much, it hurts so much, I’m sorry Louis, I’m so sorry…”

 

“Harry,” Louis breathes, unsure of what to do.

 

“Please, I’m so gross, and disgusting, and vile, and I deserve to- I deserve to die, I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared. I’m so scared.”

 

“Do you want to call David?”

 

Harry stops breathing abruptly. His eyes widen. “C-can I?”

 

“We can see if he’s there,” Louis shrugs. Nonchalant but his hands are shaking “Do you have his number?”

 

“Yeah, I- Louis, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

Louis ignores him and grabs Harry’s phone. He knows Harry’s password and types it in, and then scrolls through his contacts until he finds the only David programmed into the phone. He hits call. It rings for a while.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi,” Louis sighs in relief, eyeing Harry. “Um. I’m Louis Tomlinson, a friend of one of your patients, Harry Styles? And um, I think he might be having a panic attack right now? He wants to talk to you, though.”

 

“Alright, Louis, thank you for calling. Is everyone safe right now?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis breathes into the phone. “We’re at his apartment right now. He’s in bed.”

 

“That’s good, thank you. You can hand the phone over to him now.”

 

“Okay,” Louis whispers, still shaking. He presses the phone against Harry’s ear and sighs when Harry’s trembling hand grasps it to hold it in place.

 

For the first time since they have been together, Louis can see it. Louis can see how small he is. Not physically. Not really. He’s shrinking in on himself like he’s afraid to even exist but it’s not just that. No. He’s slight in terms of strength and mentality. In terms of presence. In terms of power. He is small. He is little. It is not a good thing, maybe, but not the worst. He needs someone to protect him—it’s as simple as that.

 

Louis gets it, why Harry asked that one time for Louis to call him “little one.” He understands, now.

 

Respecting Harry’s privacy, he decides not to listen in on the call. It seems David is coaxing him through a breathing pattern he must’ve previously mentioned, and Harry is struggling to follow it, like a student eager to complete a difficult assignment. Louis’ own mind is too busy to analyze anything.

 

Somehow David manages to calm him down. It takes a while, but considering the damage, it’s effective. Louis will have to ask him someday how he did that; it would be helpful to know.

 

“Yes, I’ll come in tomorrow,” Harry is saying, his voice quiet and raspy from the previous crying. He sounds much better now, and he looks better too, much less wild, much more tame. “Yes, thank you. I love you. Goodbye.”

 

Louis quirks a brow at the sound of Harry telling his therapist he loves him. Harry blushes a bit at his expression, and that’s how Louis knows he’s fully back to his usual self.

 

“I do love him,” Harry tells Louis once the call has ended and they’re sitting there in a mess of sheets, unsure of what to do. “He- He always tells me not to say that, but I do, I love him. He listens to me, and he knows a lot of very personal things about me, and he’s so careful with me. Kind of like how you are.”

 

Louis nods, not sure how to feel. He assumes experiencing love for your therapist isn’t too far of a stretch from the norm. It makes sense, even. As long as he doesn’t act on it.

 

Harry begins crying again, not in hysterics anymore but still full out crying. Louis wants to wrap him up in his arms but seeing as Harry is naked and vulnerable he doesn’t want to startle him or make him uncomfortable. He ends up keeping his distance, aside from brushing a few tears away with his thumbs.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry keeps saying, like an apologetic broken record. “I’m sorry, I should- I need to- I need to shower, I’m absolutely disgusting, so filthy-”

 

Louis nods wearily. He knows Harry means more than just the tears and sweat covering his body. “Would you like some company, or would you rather be by yourself?”

 

Harry tentatively asks for Louis to join him, like he thinks it’s a hardship for Louis, or just something he plainly doesn’t want to do. Louis reassures him that he does want to be here, right now, helping Harry, and that he’ll always want to be with him when Harry wants him too.

 

They get in the shower once the water is warm and Harry immediately begins scrubbing his skin frantically. He’s very methodical about it, like he’s done this before. That thought pains Louis, as he hangs back and watches, afraid to mess up the orderly routine.

  
When Harry scrubs so hard at his fingernails, pinpricks of blood arise, Louis stops him gently. The blood is washed away with the water, tinting everything rosy pink for a moment before it disappears down the drain. Louis wraps his hands around Harry’s hands to still him.

 

“Let me wash you,” he offers, because it seems like a better alternative to watching Harry scrub at his skin until it’s raw, which he sort of has already done.

 

“Okay,” Harry breathes, standing there perfectly still and letting Louis move him like a doll.

 

Louis starts at Harry’s feet and works his way up. He takes the wet, soapy cloth and washes every crevice of Harry’s body, between his toes and behind his knees, up his thighs, paying special attention to the scars where he lingers. Now seems as good a time as any to kiss them so he does, leaning in and pressing his lips softly to the milky pale expanse of Harry’s skin, each touch a reminder of how much he loves him. How much he wishes he could take his pain away. How easily he would, if only he could.

 

Without a second thought, Louis would take all of Harry’s pain and shoulder it on his own, just to see Harry happy. He would do it, he would suffer through all of it, for the sake of Harry. Harry, who he loves.

 

Harry leans against the wall and spreads his legs, allowing Louis access to the most intimate places of himself. Louis cleans him thoroughly and carefully, leaving no place unwashed. He takes Harry’s soft length in his hand and washes it gently, traveling down too, and behind him to his ass.

 

“Is it alright if I clean your bum, or would you rather do it?”

 

Harry gives him permission, and Louis wraps his finger in the cloth before slowly and gently pushing it inside, not going much further than breaching his entrance. He does it a few times, listening to Harry’s quiet whimpers above him, the little intakes of breath that make him slow down or readjust.

 

“Feels good, Lou,” Harry sighs, and everything about him is trembling.

 

Louis nods and finishes up, rinsing the cloth and then moving upwards to his hips, his tummy. Harry giggles when Louis tickles him, and squirms when he gets to his bellybutton.

 

Louis washes him thoroughly all the way up. There’s something distinctly intimate about it, about cleaning away the fingerprints of someone who has hurt Harry… rinsing soap over the bruises which blossom and darken by the minute. Louis leads Harry to the stream of warm water to wash away the soap, and then he shampoos and conditions his hair, massaging gently. Harry leans into him, hugging him gratefully. At the end, Harry insists on watching Louis too.

 

They don’t speak. It’s quiet, except for the sound of their shallow breaths, and the water falling on the tub. Louis has never been the recipient of such care in his life and it nearly brings tears to his eyes, but he blinks them away quickly and lets himself get lost in Harry.

 

Harry is so careful with him, so tender, touching his body reverently. Part of it seems that he thinks his hands are too defiled to touch someone like Lou, and yeah, that hurts a lot. Harry is nothing if not worthy but he doesn’t seem to see it.

 

At the end, they’re standing there underneath the water, staring into each other’s eyes. Harry’s are so bright and green, and even after all this time, so breathtaking.

 

“I love you,” Louis tells him, because he thinks he should know that.

 

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Harry insists. “Are you able to stand me even after what I did?”

 

Louis is quiet.

 

He keeps thinking of Harry calling it a _mistake,_ saying he wished he had never even open the door.

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry admits quietly. “I wish I hadn’t. Please, you have to know that. David says… David says it’s my self-destructive behavior, that I do things to punish myself, because I feel like I don’t deserve good.”

 

“Do you think it’s that?”

 

“I do. And I- I’m so afraid, Lou. I’m so afraid you’re going to leave me and part of me wants to do stuff to purposefully push you away so if you do leave at least I have _control_ over it, but I- I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to lose you.”

 

It isn’t infidelity, of course, because Louis and Harry aren’t exclusive. Louis has been wanting to ask Harry to be his boyfriend for a while now, but no time has ever been right.

 

The point is, Harry isn’t at fault. Not really. Louis would never hold a grudge against him but he needs to know this will never happen again.

 

“I love you, Harry, and something like this won’t change that. I just- If you want a relationship with me, we can’t- We can’t be intimate with other people. I can’t do that. It isn’t fair to you, or to me.”

 

“I get it. I really do. I don’t- I didn’t even want to be with him Lou, please, you have to understand. I only want you. I just- He came here, and you know how bad I am at saying no-”

 

“We’ll have to work on that, then. Because you have to say no, Harry, you have to.”

 

“I know. I’ve been working on it with David. I mean obviously I know how important that is, it’s just. Hard. And when I’m with you, I don’t have to worry about that stuff, you know? Because I know you’ll… I know you’ll keep me safe from Roman, and you’ll always check in to make sure I’m okay with what’s going on.”

 

“Alright, baby. I forgive you. But we gotta work on it, yeah? And you can’t let that happen again.”

 

“I won’t, I promise.”

 

“Good.” Louis kisses his wet forehead. He tries not to think of the hurt of being with someone else, someone who doesn’t love him. Someone who wants to hurt him. “I promise I’ll always be here for you, as long as you want me.”

 

“Good,” Harry echoes, reaching in for a hug.

 

They stay in the shower, wrapped up in each other, until the water runs cold.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Time passes quickly, and things get… better.

 

Harry’s parents visit for the first time just to make sure Harry actually is living on his own space. This means that Louis and Harry spent the previous day gathering all of Louis’ belongings from Harry’s loft to make sure it looked as though only Harry had ever inhabited it. Staying over at Harry’s means keeping a toothbrush in the drawer, an extra pillow in bed, and stray clothes all over the place. They run around double checking everything to make sure it isn’t too obvious.

 

As soon as they leave, Louis is there, standing outside with a bag full of takeout, and some cat treats for Sugarplum. The door opens as soon as Louis knocks, and Harry tugs him inside.

 

“How was it?”

 

“Awful,” he comments, dragging Louis to the kitchen. “But, um, they’re satisfied. Like, they’re happy I moved out. I made red velvet cupcakes, by the way.”

 

“They look great,” Louis praises, and that’s the end of the conversation about Harry’s parents.

 

They snuggle up on the bed because Harry doesn’t have a couch yet so there aren’t too many other options, aside from the floor. Sugarplum can’t make her way to the loft on her own so Louis carries her up the ladder and watches with a wide smile as should runs over the mess of sheets to nuzzle against Harry’s chest. Louis gets it. He wants to do the same.

 

This is how they spend most of their time when they’re together. Now that they know each other really well and are far past the awkward beginning stages of friendship, everything is golden. It’s easy to just exist in each other’s space and enjoy each other’s company, not worrying about anything else.

 

Louis loves nights like these the most because they’re very conducive to holding each other close and enjoying shared warmth and comfort. Even when they’re busy with studying or typing essays or finishing art projects, they usually find a way to cuddle. Sometimes this means leaning against each other on the couch, or sitting on each other’s laps, or anything really as long as they’re touching.

 

When Louis stays up late preparing for an exam the next day or rushing to finish a project, Harry likes to curl up in his lap and play with Louis’ free hand or run his fingers through his hair. Louis always indulges him, and trades kisses when he needs a break from working.

 

When Harry has a late night at the studio, Louis will typically stop by with a bag of snacks and other tiny gifts, like a stuffed animal or a new lotion, lip balm, or perfume to try. He likes to sit on an empty stool and watch Harry work, admiring the look of concentration on his face, they way he rubs his eyes when he’s tired, and furrows his brow when he’s trying to figure something out. Sometimes there will be graphite smudged on his cheek, or maybe even a smear of paint, and it’s just so endearing…

 

They haven’t been spending every night together, but definitely the majority of them. Usually Louis goes to Harry’s even if it means a longer walk to class in the morning, because getting to see Harry with Sugarplum is truly a gift. Harry’s apartment feels cozier too, maybe because it’s so much smaller. Harry says it feels empty when Louis isn’t with him.

 

Instead of watching movies or TV shows on Harry’s laptop, they have a night of reading books in companionable silence. Harry journals a little bit, writing in his messy scrawl and shying away every time Louis even glances in his direction. Louis would never violate his privacy by trying to sneak a glance at what he’s writing, but he does wonder.

 

Around midnight Harry makes more tea, and somehow manages to climb back up the ladder holding two cups in his hands. Louis takes one from him quickly, before he can spill it, and kisses him in thanks. The tea feels warm within his hands and the heat spreads throughout his body, especially when Harry curls up beside him and they fall back into their easy silence.

 

Nothing is ever perfect, but life has been getting a lot better. It’s still the dead of winter and some wounds are so fresh and recent, it hurts to even think about them. But the more time they spend with each other, the more often they talk about the troubles that are bothering them, the closer they find themselves, and the easier it becomes to coexist.

 

Their love is secure, even if Harry and Louis are insecure. The doubt and worry disappears with time, as they prove themselves over and over again. The promise that _I will be here for you, whenever you need me_ only becomes more certain, more sure.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The best part of the arrival of spring is that Harry starts wearing shorts.

 

It’s only thirty-five degrees, just barely above freezing. But after the frigid winter, thirty-five degrees and rain feels like summer. On campus, students walks around without jackets, their sleeves rolled up, brilliant smiles on their faces. The snow melts, but the nights are cold, which freezes the water from the day and turns the sidewalks into slippery runways. Almost everyone slips at least once. It’s just expected, given the circumstances.

 

Harry is one of those people who doesn’t really mind the cold, and thirty-five degrees feels warm to him especially after the weeks in February filled with sub-zero temperatures. He wears eveyr pair of shorts he has, alternating between running shorts, jean shorts, floral shorts, and eveyrthing in between. Louis loves it more than anything because there’s something so beautiful about Harry’s bare skin, snowy pale from a winter hidden from the sun.

 

His scars aren’t very noticeable, but he’s self-conscious and always afraid someone will pester him about them. One night Louis stays up late listening to Harry’s worries, and coming up with a list of responses for him to use if someone ever comments on the small circular blemishes dotting his otherwise perfect skin. The conversation eases his anxieties and melts away a bit of the fear.

 

He could say, _This is what happens when you try to comfort the sea urchins and stingrays._

 

He could say, _It’s a road map. I got lost, but I found my way back._

 

He could say, _Lord Voldemort really, really, really wanted to kill me._

 

He could say, _This skin is a book written in cuneiform._

 

He could say, _This is my first draft. This is my second draft. This is all of my drafts, all of my errors, revisions, and highlights, all of my pages, all of my maps; all of the places where the world wrote still alive._

 

Louis is careful about Harry’s scars. He doesn’t want to call attention to them for fear of upsetting Harry, but he also doesn’t want Harry to think he doesn’t care. It’s a fine line and sometimes it feels like Louis is walking a tightrope, with danger on either side.

 

They make it work, though. It isn’t easy, but support from people like Harry’s therapist David make it a lot easier.

 

One day in late January, Harry and Louis met David for lunch at a posh cafe not too far from Harry’s apartment. They were both nervous but knew it was for the best. It was the first time Louis ever met David and he wasn’t surprised to see a lovely, polished man who was well educate, empathetic, and very knowledgeable about Harry’s situation.

 

He gave them a bit of information and answered Louis’ questions. Their discussion was intimate but David never made it weird, or seemed uncomfortable. He was very helpful, and eased both of their worries. He kept saying that Louis’ behaviors and reactions were great, and that he could help a lot if he kept acting this way towards Harry. Harry’s smile was shy but he agreed with everything David said.

 

The meeting set Louis’ mind at ease. He felt good knowing that it was okay to be in a relationship with Harry even if Harry wasn’t fully “healed” or recovered. David gave Louis tips on how to help with Harry’s panic attacks and nightmares, to make it easier and more comfortable, more efficient.

 

The conversation about their intimate life was more difficult to get through but it was really insightful nonetheless. Enlightening and important. David gave them guidelines on future discussions for them to have in terms of boundaries, and signs to notice when the other person is becoming uncomfortable but is unable to say it. David says that intimacy is a healthy aspect of their relationship and that if they feel like it they shouldn’t shy away from it.

 

The reassurance is really fucking nice to have. It dissipates the guilt Louis had previously felt while fucking Harry roughly like he asked, because it hadn’t seemed like a good idea. Now that he knows it’s okay, within reason, he feels like he might enjoy it quite a bit more.

 

For Harry’s birthday, Louis arranges a dinner with their close friends at a restaurant they’ve never been to before, which turns out to be amazing. They go to a bar afterwards and all get a little bit tipsy, but not over the top drunk. At the end of the night, Louis brings Harry home to his own apartment, which has a bathtub big enough for both of them. That had been a major selling point when Harry was searching for a new place to stay, but they’ve never used it until this night.

 

When Harry had been getting ready to go out earlier, Louis had managed to distract him enough to fill the bathroom with candles and rose petals. Now, they sit together on the edge of the tub as it fills with water tinged with lavender oil. Harry is gazing at him with hearts in his eyes, so in awe of all Louis has done for him tonight.

 

They undress each other with care, admiring each other’s bodies with reverence. It’s sweet, soft, and quiet, every movement cautious and attentive, dragging out every touch to spread the pleasure.

 

The logistics of bathtub sex are difficult to master, but they do just fine. Only a bit of water sloshes out as Harry rides Louis slowly, not tossing his head back in pleasure like he usually does but keeping his eyes trained very carefully on Louis’ face, not wanting to miss a second of seeing him.

 

Louis keeps one hand on Harry’s cock, pulling him off to the pace of his thrusts, and keeps the other settled low on his back to support him in case he falters. He runs the hand up and down his back, dragging his nails along his skin damp with sweet-smelling bath water and even sweeter-smelling sweat. Harry’s green eyes are hazy with lust and so easy to get lost in, so easy to drown in.

 

When they finish, Harry collapses forward and curls up on him, leaving Louis to pull them up before the water gets cold. He dries them off and they crawl into bed together, where Louis eats Harry out for the time it takes for him to come three more times, which is at least an hour and a half. By the end, he’s an absolute mess, shaking and sobbing, moaning about how much he loves Louis and how much he never wants to lose him.

 

Louis soothes him with cuddles and kisses, keeping Harry safe in his arms. He reassures him with soft words spoken into his ear, whispering that he’ll love him forever, no matter what. Promising that he’ll keep him safe and happy for as long as he can. That he’ll love him with everything he has.

 

Those are big promises to keep, but Louis has never been so sure about anything in his life as he is about this.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Harry finishes his sculpture inspired by ancient Greek art, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

 

There’s a show night where all the art majors invite their friends for hors d’oeuvres and drinks, and network with professors and other professionals in the art realm. Louis attends, of course, with the rest of their friends in tow.

 

It’s a magical night. The dress code requires them to dress up, which is more fun than it is annoying. It’s worth it, too, to see Harry beaming so brilliantly, his smile to bright it’s blinding. He’s absolutely glowing, and Louis has never been more in love.

 

They’ve been putting it off for a while but Louis knows tonight is the night he wants to ask. He wants to make it special. more special than usual, because it feels like every moment they spend together is special, and Louis has no idea when he turned so sappy. He never knew he would feel like this.

 

So at the end of the night, Louis surprises Harry with roses and chocolates and a photo book he made of all their selfies together, with sappy romantic captions that make Harry blush. As he flips for the book for the first time, tears well up in his eyes until they spill over the edge and pour down his cheeks like a rainstorm in Spring. He sniffles, and he’s so beautiful like this, even when he’s overly emotional and crying because he’s such a sap. Louis just loves him so much, it feels as though his heart could burst.

 

His lower lip wobbles as he looks up to meet Louis’ eyes. “Louis did you really… Did you really do all of this for me?”

 

“Of course, baby,” Louis whispers, capturing his lips in a soft kiss. “Of course I did.”

 

His hands are trembling, and Louis can tell the waterworks are about to begin again. “But why?”

 

“Because you’re really special to me and I want you to know that,” Louis tells him honestly, openly, and kisses his nose for good measure, because how can he not when Harry’s nose is just right there and so cute? “And I know sometimes it’s hard when we’re away, when I can’t stay the night and you have nightmares… I wanted you to have something to look at that will remind you of me, and maybe keep the bad thoughts away. So you could see this and remember how much I want to be with you. How much I love you.”

 

Harry flings his arms around Louis neck and collapses into him, sobbing. They’re sitting in the car after Harry’s art show ended, and Harry thinks Louis is just going to bring him back to his apartment but he still has other plans for them. Their night isn’t over yet.

 

“Louuuuuiiiiiiis,” he whines exasperatedly, squeezing him even tighter and squirming around helplessly. “How am I supposed to survive when you make me feel all warm and mushy inside?”

 

“You gotta stay alive for at least a little longer, because I have one more surprise for you,” Louis teases. He coaxes Harry back into his own seat and helps him get his seatbelt on, before doing his own and starting the car.

 

Harry pesters him with hundreds of questions about where Louis is taking him and why he’s taking him there. Louis recycles the same answers over and over: _a place I love_ and _because I love you._ Harry pouts and continues acting as the menace he always is. It’s too endearing.

 

The drive takes a little over an hour but mostly just because it’s always difficult getting out of the city. He knows it’ll be hell driving back but he also knows it’ll be worth it. It is one of his favorite places and he’s determined to make a memorable night for Harry.

 

When they get there, the park is empty, because it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night on a Thursday. He grabs what he needs from the back of the car and then guides Harry down to the overlook. Harry gasps in awe when he takes in the view, which is admittedly a bit more difficult to see in the dark. Still, there’s something about it, something innate about standing at the edge of a cliff and looking out over the valley… Feeling so insignificant but so infinite, all at the same time.

 

As Harry takes in the view, Louis sets up the blanket and lights the candles he brought with him. He knows how much Harry likes candles, and always wants to indulge him, so he does, of course. When Harry turns around he sees the candles lining the edge of the blanket, and a small cluster of them organized in the shape of a heart, and he begins crying all over again.

 

“Louis…”

 

“Sit down with me, love. Look at the stars.”

 

The sky is crystal clear, and this far away from the city, thousands of constellations are visible. Even though Louis is expecting it, it still knocks his breath away when he looks up and sees the raw beauty of the universe, untouched and untarnished. He lets Harry get a good look at it too before he rests his hand on his shoulder and says, “I have something I want to ask you.”’

 

Harry looks confused and a little worried, but also hopeful. Louis doesn’t want him to be worried but he’s assuming the surplus of romantic gestures, such as the candles organized in a heart design, show him that this is something good and nothing to be worried about he hopes.

 

“So, um. I want to tell you some things and it’s going to sound really sappy, but I’m being completely honest. It’s just you. You make me really sappy.”

 

Harry laughs a little, relaxing. “Me too,” he agrees. “You make me feel sappy too.”

 

“Good,” Louis smiles, wanting to dive in and kiss him hard but knowing he should get this out first. “So, when I first met you, I’ll admit I was a little hesitant because I usually don’t mesh very well with quiet people. Like I used to… I used to find them boring, or just not fun, really, and I- I don’t know. In the beginning you were very quiet and closed off but it only took me a little time to realize how endeared I was by how shy you were, and, frankly, by everything you did.”

 

Harry stares up at him with wide eyes because he’s shrinking down a little, letting Louis fill in the space slightly above him, facing him.

 

“And then… And then I became very close with you in a few ways, like getting to know your trauma, and you were still closed off but I knew it was like to hold you at night until you stopped crying and finally calmed down, and that’s _intimate,_ you know? And I grew to like you, like, a lot, which quickly turned into love, and you know that already, you know that I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Harry whispers, eyes still wide in awe, this time not at the stars but at _Louis._

 

“And every day that passes, I fall in love with you even more. Sometimes it feels like… sometimes it feels like my heart is so full, it’s going to burst. Like I can’t possibly love you any more, but then the next day comes, and I do. I do. And it feels so full, so fulfilling, to love you. Like it’s the best decision I ever made, and I- and I want to be with you, always. I want to take care of you and make sure you’re safe, and always have you as my own. Because you’re mine, and I’m yours, and that’s just it. We’re each other’s and it feels so fucking meant to be, like the universe was made for us to fall in love. Like we’ll find a way to be together no matter where we are, or who we are… Like our souls fit together. That’s what it feels like.”

 

Harry is quiet. He kisses Louis’ jaw, and then caresses the spaces his lips touched with his fingers. “I agree,” he whispers. “We were made for each other.”

 

Louis sets his hand on the back of Harry’s neck and reaches his fingers through Harry’s hair, massaging mindlessly. “We were,” he confirms. “When I’m with you, I feel like I’m home.”

 

Harry leans into him, lulling his head onto his shoulder and turning towards his neck. The world is silent, except for the wind which is just a faint breeze of cool nighttime air, rolling over the valley. “That’s what you are to me,” Harry admits. “Home.”

 

It’s a big deal for Harry to say that, because… Because he’s never really had a home. Elmhurst, Illinois hardly counts, and he’s said a million times over that he doesn’t think of it as home, and that’s… That’s… Louis doesn’t know what that is. All he knows is that it makes his heart swell and flip and ache and do all these ridiculous things he never thought it could do.

 

“Thank you, Harry. That really means a lot.”

 

“You said you had something to ask me?”

 

“Right, um, yeah.” He swallows heavily, thinking over his words. “Well, saying all of that makes what I’m about to ask seem dreadfully juvenile, but whatever.” He strokes his hand down Harry’s back and lets the wind fill the silence for a little while. Then, he says into Harry’s ear, “Harry Styles, will you be mine?”

 

Harry gasps a little and nudges his lips to Louis’ to capture them in a kiss. It’s warm, sweet, and light, but still full of love. When he pulls away he says, “Yes,” with definitive certainty. “Yes, of course. I want to be yours so badly, I want to be your boyfriend.”

 

They kiss hard, sealing the deal. When they pull back, Louis presses his lips to harry’s forehead and whispers, “Mine.”

 

“Yours,” Harry agrees, hugging him tightly. “I’m yours.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The last few months of the semester are absolutely hectic.

 

Since Louis is about to graduate, he’s never been more busy. He’s in charge of a large research project and he never had any idea how difficult it would be to delegate tasks to the underclassmen he’s working with, but it turns out to be a big challenge. His project is complex and there’s a lot of room for error, meaning most of his time is occupied by trying to fix mistakes and foolproof everything so the experiments can actually be replicated and supported. On top of this, he has his usual classes to deal with, and mountains of papers to write.

 

Harry is busy too, with a handful of time-consuming projects for each class. He’s almost always in the studio, working early in the morning and late at night, stressing over everything because nothing seems good enough.

 

Louis can’t imagine having to constantly create original pieces of art. It seems horrifically draining. Harry is good at it thought, even given the amount he complains, and Louis knows he’s at the top of all his classes. Every piece he turns in impresses his professors without fail. Everyone loves his style, his subjects, his way of making things that turns the material beautiful and full of emotion.

 

Right now, they’re in the library, both busy writing essays in companionable silence. It’s Saturday night and this is what they’re doing, but they’re so bogged down with work they kind of have to.

 

Harry asks to take a break. Louis agrees hesitantly because sometimes their “breaks” turn into hours of making out instead of completing necessary tasks. Harry looks innocent enough, though, so he scooches his chair back and lets Harry sit on his lip, curling into him for a cuddle.

 

“When I first met you, I was so scared of you,” Harry whispers, out of the blue.

 

Louis is taken aback. It’s kind of funny. “What? Why, baby?”

 

“You’re so intimidating. There’s just… something in the way you carry yourself that shows you’re hot and you know it, and like, you’re really confident. And funny. And nice. And loud. And it’s just a lot.”

 

“Is that why you avoided me at first?”

 

“I didn’t avoid you,” Harry protests. “But yeah, maybe.”

 

“It got better, though, right?”

 

Harry rolls his eyes, “Obviously. I mean, look at us. But like, yeah. I think… I think I saw really quickly how careful you are with me, and not even intentionally, just like, implicitly. Like, even before you realized it you were always checking up on me to make sure I was okay, and like, happy, and stuff. And you are so gentle with me. Always. So when I noticed that, I started to really want to be around you, like all the time.”

 

Louis smooths his hands over Harry’s back, deep in thought. It’s nice to know that even early on, Harry could tell how much he cared about him.

 

“I love you a lot. I loved you for a while, I think.”

 

“When did you start?” he asks quietly, the moment too soft to risk breaking it.

 

“I think… I think I started loving you the night you first held me after I had a nightmare, when you were comforting me and telling me it was okay, that you would keep me safe. And then how you brought me to the bookstore, and showed me a place that is special to you. I think that’s when I fell in love.”

 

“Oh Harry…”

 

“I fell in love with you a million times over, though.”

 

“A million times?”

 

“A million.”

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


Liam is not surprised to hear they are officially dating. Neither is Zayn. Nor Niall. Nor Louis’ entire family, including his aunts and uncles and cousins, who have all somehow heard of this dream boy Louis has found. His family is a bit gossipy; he blames his mum.

 

When they make the announcement, everyone indulges them in fake-shocked expressions and poorly concealed I-told-you-so visages. Louis just rolls his eyes and focuses on Harry again, because that’s all he really cares about anyways.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


At graduation, Louis doesn’t cry.

 

To be fair, fourth-year was complete hell and he’s so glad it’s over.

 

Harry is the one who cries.

 

He sobs happy tears the entire ceremony, and then jumps on Louis the minute he can once it’s all over, and engulfs him in a tight hug coupled with many, many kisses. Then, on the walk to his apartment, he sobs sad, hysteric tears, because Louis is leaving.

 

Kind of. Harry is sad because things are changing and in three months, Louis will be transferred to Boston, Massachusetts to begin his new job.

 

That’s right, you heard correctly: new job. He starts at the end of summer and he is so unbelievably excited to be a real working adult. It sounds strange but after years of studying he just wants to get out there and do something he feels passionate about.

 

For the summer, he’ll be living with Harry. After that, they’ll have to find a way to make a long-distance relationship work.

 

Louis isn’t worried. Their relationship has been rolling smoothly for months, and he’s determined not to let a four-hour drive get in the way of the momentous love they feel for each other.

 

It makes Harry sad, though, when they start talking about when they’ll call or facetime, and when and they’ll plan to meet each other. Given that Harry has a whole other year of school, they’re on largely different schedules, but they can make it work. Louis is certain.

 

Harry is most worried about not having sex.

 

“What am I going to do without you?” he whines one night, when they’re engaging in a bit of post-coital cuddling. Louis had fucked Harry once against the window, once on the floor, and twice in bed. It had been a wild night, Harry’s daddy kink raging, which Louis is finally getting used to. He’s learned to like it, a lot. Some days he can’t even remember why he thought it was weird or uncomfortable in the first place. There’s just something about his baby whimpering and calling him Daddy that settles something deep in his core, euphoria flooding through him…

 

“You’ll be fine, baby,” Louis assures him, kissing all over his face slowly, taking his time. “We’ll see each other every weekend, and besides, there’s such thing as a phone. And a webcam.”

 

Harry pouts, and Louis kisses it away, and yeah, things are good.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


The most reliable remedy for trauma is time.

 

This doesn’t mean that given enough days after the initial hurt and pain, anyone can heal, but it does mean that if all else fails, waiting it out is a great solution to try.

 

With every day, Louis watches as Harry slowly heals. It’s tedious, arduous work. Most of the credit goes to Harry, for deciding to live every day and make the best of it. For deciding he wants to get better.

 

David is a big help. He continues to work with Harry multiple times a week to talk over the wounds of his past, and work on ways to move forward. He teaches Harry coping mechanisms and good habits to keep. A lot of them seem self-explanatory and simple, but having someone there to push him to even give them a shot is what it’s all about.

 

Harry still has his bad days, and his bad nights. There are times when he can’t bring himself to get out of bed in the morning. There are times when he struggles to pull himself out of a nightmare and is left shaking for hours afterwards. There are times when he has a flashback triggered by something seemingly innocuous, and he falls into a dissociative state until he falls asleep.

 

There are times when he relapses, and burns himself with a cigarette or Louis’ lighter. Those are the times that are the worst to deal with because they both feel so helpless and useless. Louis hates that Harry feels like hurting himself. He wants to protect him from everything, but it’s hard to do when he’s self-destructive. When he doesn’t want to be protected. When he wants to hurt himself.

 

Louis can’t do much, but show Harry as much love as possible. He reassuropportunity he gets, never failing to take the time to either say or show his love. A kiss on the cheek or a stroke of the shoulder in passing, a spontaneous gift of roses or a new ring to put on his finger, even just the simple words _I love you, always._ It’s his duty to make sure Harry feels loved and supported at every turn of fate and Louis will be damned if he fails.

 

Harry gets better. As time passes, he feels less like retreating within himself, or hurting himself, or destroying himself.

 

As time passes, he becomes happier.

 

As time passes, he becomes lighter.

 

It’s a beautiful transition to witness, to watch him flourish. Louis loves to witness the color of his eyes turn brighter, the shy smile on his face growing bigger. He loves to see the real, visceral responses as a result of love and commitment.

 

Some trauma, especially during childhood, will never heal. Yet it’s important to look back at this trauma, to recognize it, and even to call it by name.

 

Like a box in the attic, filled of memories from decades ago, dusty and weathered.

 

Pull out the photos and look at them one by one; acknowledge how each scene makes you feel. Remember the good times and the bad. Remember the storms. Remember the loss of love, the lack of it, and realize how much love you have now. Feel the love in your heart, and in the breathing human beside you, the one who has stuck with you all this time. Feel that you are not alone.

 

Put the memories back in the box and close the lid.

 

Keep it closed.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [Reblog the fic post on Tumblr](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/176530550654/undone-undress-by-angelichl-134k-louis-new)
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> This fic has been my baby for months and I was really scared to post it. All feedback is welcome, even if it's negative. I'd love to hear what you thought of this.
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> Thanks for reading!


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